Scrambled
by stillwritingjag
Summary: Harm's adventures continue in London.
1. Chapter 1

Author: Laurie

Story Title: Scrambled

Classification: Drama and angst. (But a happy, shipper ending!)

Posted: June 2006

Disclaimer: JAG belongs to Paramount, CBS, et.al. No infringement

is intended.

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Part 1

August 21, 2005

"… and God bless Aunt Mac and Uncle Harm. Amen," 6-year old A.J. Roberts said, the final word and sign of the cross signaling he had concluded his solemn litany of requests.

"And God bless A.J. Roberts," Mac quickly added on his behalf before they both got up from their knees.

Pulling back the colorful covers, Mac waited while Harriet and Bud's oldest child slid into bed. Tucking the blanket around the little boy, she tussled his thick head of hair and planted a goodnight kiss on his forehead. "Sleep tight."

"Don't go."

"You need to go to sleep. I'll be right downstairs with your parents."

"Wait…"

"Did I forget something? This night light maybe?" she asked, flicking on the small lamp shaped like an F14 Tomcat.

"No. I just wanted to …"

Seeing tears pool in his eyes and hearing his voice quiver, Mac settled herself on the edge of the bed. "What is it A.J.?"

"Would you tell Uncle Harm I'm really, really sorry about the baseball bat."

Smiling kindly, Mac used her fingertips to brush away the warm tears trickling down the red cheeks. "Don't worry. He already knows."

"Listen to your Aunt Mac, A.J. She's always right."

Mac turned around as Harm entered the bedroom. "I am?"

"Sure."

"Since when?"

Harm lowered the ice bag from his face as he bent down to give Mac a kiss. "Since we've been married," he answered, the accompanying smirk inadvertently igniting the pain he was failing miserably to hide.

"Then why aren't you taking it easy like I told you to?"

Harm grinned at A.J. and answered, "I didn't say I always listen to you."

"Uncle Harm!"

Before Mac could continue the banter, A.J. threw back the covers and jumped up, undoing his unofficial aunt's bedside work. Preparing to launch himself into his equally unofficial uncle's arms, his outstretched arms fell to his side when Mac cautioned, "Easy A.J., Uncle Harm's nose is broken."

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to … It was …"

Letting the ice bag fall to the bed, Harm pulled A.J. into his arms and finished "… an accident." Hugging him tightly, Harm carefully positioned his chin on top of the boy's head as A.J. burrowed his face into his shoulder, his tears seeping through Harm's t-shirt. "Hey, it's okay, buddy. I know you didn't mean to."

"Momma is really mad and daddy took the bat away," he cried.

"I know. But things will be better in the morning, you'll see. And my nose will be good as new in a couple of weeks."

"Promise?" A.J. asked, squirming loose to get a better look at the molded plastic splint covering Harm's nose. The white adhesive tape holding it in place highlighted the already forming purplish bruises beneath each eye. Despite the cold compress, the area remained puffy and swollen.

Lowering his friends' son back onto the bed, Harm grinned. "Yeah, I promise. Now you need to go to sleep. Otherwise, you won't be awake when we say goodbye in the morning."

Exhausted from the long day and its frightening turn of events, A.J. could offer little resistance as his heavy eyelids pulled downward. Tucked in once more, his last words trailed off, "I was so scared …"

"Me too," Mac whispered, pulling Harm down beside her on the bed. After grazing his temple with a tender kiss, they sat quietly for a few more minutes. Once A.J. was sound asleep, she pulled her husband to his feet and exited the room with him secure in her grasp.

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Returning to London, Mac studied her husband as he slept fitfully in the first-class airline seat. Married now for nearly three months, they had spent the time abroad in 'connubial bliss' as Mac liked to call it.

Checking in this morning at Dulles Airport, their seating assignments for their return flight had been a surprise to both of them. Evidently the expensive upgrade was a wedding present of sorts from their friends, who no doubt had relished the opportunity to have the last word.

There hadn't been time for a formal wedding in late April when the sudden turn of events and a coin toss had decided their fate. Nevertheless, one glance at Harm's face when the quickly-arranged minister proclaimed them 'husband and wife' was enough to obliterate any importance Mac had ever placed on the pomp and ceremony she thought she had always wanted. And though he finally stated his love for her explicitly, it was the depth of emotion conveyed by his eyes that spoke volumes.

Having consummated their union in Washington, they were swiftly bundled off to London. And while they arrived alone, separated from family and friends, they more importantly arrived together as Mr. and Mrs. Harmon Rabb, Jr.

It wasn't until late August that Harm's job as Force Judge Advocate had required he return stateside for a personal briefing with General Cresswell. Bud Roberts, still at JAG headquarters, had casually mentioned Harm's impending visit to his wife. And that's all it took for the capable and experienced Christmas Eve-Baghdad-concert-organizer to undertake plans for an extravagant Rabb Reception for which there had been no time before.

Having got wind of the surprise event via a slip of the lips by young A.J. Roberts, Harm and Mac insisted on it being scaled back to a small, 'picnic-type affair' at the Roberts' residence and further negotiated a 'no-gifts' policy. Outranked, there was little Bud and Harriet could do but accept the fact that the lack of formal pageantry went hand-in-hand with Harm and Mac's entire relationship – a relationship most would agree could never be defined as traditional.

All-in-all, the party in their honor had proven fun, but Mac could have done without the broken nose incident. If Harm had slept better the night before, she might have awakened him now. But knowing that he had gotten little rest, she figured any sleep was better than none. Seeing him grimace when his head lolled to the side, her thoughts returned to 24-hours earlier.

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Hoisting himself out of the pool, Harm quietly made his way towards his wife. Catching her from behind, he encircled his arms around her as his body molded perfectly against her fully-dressed form.

"Harm! You're soaking me!"

"That was the idea. You said you were coming in."

Mac tilted her head back for a kiss then snuck out of his embrace, not wanting to get any wetter. "I was having too much fun getting caught up with Tiner and Gunny."

Harm feigned hurt. "I've been shoved to the back of the line."

"Where you belong," Sturgis piped in good-naturedly, also having exited the pool, but toweling off first before grabbing a seat next to Varese.

"There are more dry towels by the deck," Harriet informed Harm.

Harm grinned widely. "Okay, okay. I can take a hint. Can I get anyone anything while I'm up?"

"A burger with the works," Mac replied.

"You're eating again?"

"Harm, that was hours ago. It's now dinner."

"I'll take a beer," Sturgis put in his order.

"I'm ready for another too," retired Admiral Chegwidden and General Cresswell replied in unison.

"I'll take a hotdog with—"

Sensing a conspiracy, Harm chuckled and hurried off towards the deck before he forgot the orders that had already been placed. He was amazed how many people had showed up for the picnic, some having to request leave and fly in from other parts of the country. Looking back over his shoulder at his best friend, who was finally his wife, he felt totally content, blessed, and grateful.

Even so, he couldn't deny the feeling that sooner or later the other shoe was going to drop. He didn't know what that shoe entailed, but history had proven time and again that his life was destined for bumps in the road. Kicking himself for such pessimistic thoughts, he pushed them away when he came upon A.J. Roberts tying off a bright red monster at the nearby water spigot. "Water balloons!" he chuckled evilly, winking conspiratorially at the youngster.

"Yep."

"Do you have an extra?"

"Sure. Hey, Uncle Harm, watch what I can do."

"Harm, skip the relish," Mac yelled to him from the picnic table, situated 50 feet away beneath a large shade tree.

Harm's attention was divided between his wife's revised order, the potential uses of the water-based ammunition, and the exploits of his favorite, unofficial nephew.

"Uncle Harm, watch!"

"Harm, on second thought, I'll take the –"

Trying to hear what Mac ultimately wanted on her burger, Harm turned his head.

"—relish."

Turning his attention back to A.J., he bent forward to grab a towel from the lowest rung of the steps leading up to the deck. From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the red balloon being tossed in the air for batting practice.

A.J., his attention having been focused on striking the water-filled balloon with his bat, didn't see Harm enter the picture until too late. Swinging and missing the makeshift ball, the aluminum bat instead came around and solidly impacted with the bridge of Harm's nose.

As the balloon's contents exploded at Harm's feet, his face erupted with pain and tears. Blood, spurting from his nostrils, followed. The liquid immediately engulfed his senses. He smelled it first and then tasted the metallic fluid as it passed his lips. Wiping the coppery brew away, his eyes saw nothing but red as he felt the sticky, warm mixture between his fingers. But while his mind made sense of all that, it could not grasp the sound of it flowing in his ears.

Confused and dazed, Harm stumbled forward, trying to stay upright. His hand sought purchase on the condiments table, but it gave way beneath his weight, launching its contents into the air and sending him to the ground.

The commotion had everyone running towards the deck and Harm's now sprawled body. Minutes later, it was a somber group that watched as his limp body was strapped to a backboard, his head and neck immobilized as he was transferred to the ambulance.

Just before Mac jumped in the emergency vehicle, someone thoughtfully exchanged the bloody towel in her hands with a pair of Harm's sneakers, shorts, and one of his t-shirts. Hoping the gesture was a good omen, Mac clung tight to the clothes and sent up another prayer that he would need them sooner than later. As it turned out, that looked more promising when Harm regained consciousness en route to the hospital.

Mac moved closer when the paramedic made room. No longer able to see his misshapen nose buried beneath a clump of white gauze and ice, she grabbed his hand. "Harm, I'm here."

Opening his eyes, Harm focused on her concerned face then moved his eyes slowly around until he identified his current surroundings. "What did I do now?" he groaned, his words sounding stuffy, like he had a massive head cold.

"We're guessing you ran into A.J.'s bat."

"Oh yeah … I sort of remember."

"The backboard and cervical collar are just precautions. But your nose is definitely broken."

"I guess I ruined the party."

"Some people were leaving soon anyway. Others are meeting us at the hospital."

Hearing Harm groan, Mac gently laid her hand on his chest, feeling the steady heartbeat beneath her fingertips. "What is it?"

"I hope this doesn't affect our leaving tomorrow … We both have to get back to work."

"Don't you dare worry about that."

Giving in to the relentless hammer pounding behind his eyes and the blazing pain still encompassing his nose, Harm managed an 'Okay' before closing his eyes.

When they arrived at the hospital, the Emergency Room was overflowing with activity typical of a hot, August weekend. Having been previously unconscious, Harm was sent to the front of the line of those with non life-threatening injuries.

Carefully assessing Harm for head and neck injuries, the doctor found neither. Moving on to his nose, more good news followed. The doctor had been able to deal with the displaced fracture in the ER with just local anesthesia, eliminating the need for surgery and a hospital stay. Thus it was with a great sense of relief that Mac updated their friends and began tackling the mountain of discharge forms.

Three hours after arriving, the examinations, repairs, and paperwork were completed. Equipped with prescriptions for an antibiotic, pain medication, and nasal decongestant, Mac retraced her steps in search of her husband who still occupied a curtained-off cubicle in the ER.

"Are you ready to—"

Expecting to see Harm dressed and anxious to leave, Mac stopped short when she saw him still clad only in swim trunks. The eerie stillness of his splayed body, lying vulnerable and exposed on the cold gurney, was a frightening contrast to the perspiring head rolling wildly from side to side. His face was contorted and his eyes were tightly clenched as he mumbled incoherently to no one but himself.

Alarmed at the sight, Mac hurried into the cubicle. Her hand first contacted Harm's chilled foot which immediately jerked away, as if burned by her touch. Coming to rest next on his forearm, her hand felt the tremor wracking his body. Realizing he was caught in the throes of some dream, she gently shook his shoulder with her free hand.

"Harm, wake up. It's a nightmare … Harm …"

Hearing Mac's increasingly frantic tone, a nurse from the crowded confines of the adjacent compartment appeared. Nodding to the neatly folded clothes on the chair, she frowned. "He was going to get dressed when I left him. He must have fallen asleep … Mr. Rabb, it's time to go. We need this area."

Already frustrated with the long and hectic day, the nurse reached around behind her. Before Mac could protest, the woman broke open a small ammonia capsule and waved it under Harm's splinted nose. The sharp smell of the fresh capsule immediately overpowered similar traces of smelling salt odors drifting over from the other side of the curtained partition.

An alarmed grunt immediately communicated Harm's displeasure as his bruised nasal membranes protested the irritating effect of the respiratory irritant. Recoiling from the stimulus, his head thrashed aside. His left arm protectively covered his face while his right hand swiped at his nose. Instinctively wanting to avoid further exposure, his body turned away, curling into a fetal position.

Infuriated by the poor judgment, Mac positioned herself between Harm and the ammonia-capsule-armed nurse. "Damn it, what were you thinking!"

Rather than answer the rhetorical question, the chastised woman quickly disposed of the smelly irritant while Mac continued efforts to break through the dream's unusually strong hold.

"Harm."

Still curled in on himself, his breathing shallow and fast, his words became clearer. "No … no don't! … NOOOOO! …"

Holding Harm's rigid body in a tight embrace, her biceps straining, Mac's face was mere inches from his. "Harm, wake up. You're safe. Harm, please--"

Suddenly Harm's eyes flew open. A second later he went limp, an unrecognizable whimper escaping his throat. Still in her arms, Mac watched his face for any signs of comprehension. For far too long, she saw eyes that could only be described as black, empty, and despairingly cold.

"Harm? Talk to me, Harm."

His chest heaving and glistening with sweat, Harm unfurled his tightly wound body. "Mac. What happened?"

Seeing confusion but recognition, it was Mac's turn to sag. "Thank God."

"Mac?"

Still not ready to break contact, Mac placed a soothing hand on Harm's forehead and answered, "Nightmare. Do you remember?"

For a second he considered the question. Then like a flipped light switch, his eyes shined with fear.

"I don't remember … I don't remember … I don't remember …"

Its tone a blend of abject fear, utter confusion, and debilitating despair, the repeated declaration trailed distressingly off into silence.

Disturbed by everything she had witnessed, Mac offered assurance as much for herself as for her husband. "It's okay, Harm. It was just a dream."

Calm restored, both spouse and attending physician nevertheless insisted the departure from the hospital be delayed until they were comfortable the episode would not be repeated. Emotionally exhausted and physically hurting, Harm adamantly refused a sedative but accepted the bolster of pain medication to quiet his burning nasal passages and pounding headache.

No matter how hard he tried during the hour of imposed observation, he could neither remember anything of the nightmare nor offer any insight regarding why he reacted so intensely to his failure to recall it. Realizing the concern the entire incident had generated, he diffused the worry by lightheartedly chalking it up to his newlywed status. But in truth, both shortcomings left him uneasy. And that sense of apprehension accompanied him as the Rabbs returned to the Roberts' home and, having calmed A.J. Roberts, eventually to the privacy of the spare bedroom.

Too wrung out for any intimate behavior, Mac instead massaged Harm's back in an effort to relieve the tension in his shoulders and neck. Following the therapy, neither of them managed much sleep. But when they did, it was in each other's arms, both grateful for the comforting presence of the other.

In the morning, the Roberts and Rabbs enjoyed breakfast on the deck. With an hour to spare, Harriet insisted on solely clearing away the dishes and took charge of her youngest children. Meanwhile Bud, after a gentle reminder about safety, pitched to a happy and restored A.J. who consistently made contact with the plastic wiffle balls. Laughter ensued as Mac and Harm, albeit it gingerly, scooted about the yard in an inevitable but friendly competition to field the most hits. Thus, it was a tired but happy pair that was delivered to the airport and sent off with promises to stay in touch.

Once in the air, the drone and vibration of the jet engines worked their magic, lulling Harm to sleep while equally tugging at Mac's eyes. Rather than give in to the strong pull, Mac turned on her side and watched Harm. Holding his hand in hers, she relished the feel of their gold wedding bands touching. Studying the symbolic rings, she smiled recalling how yesterday Jennifer Coates made Harm replay his philosophy on the entire notion of matrimonial traditions.

H: Are you following me Coates?

C: Just a little, Sir. I'm hoping for some insight. I'm planning the Admiral's wedding.

H: That's a losing proposition.

C: I'm finding that, Sir. They don't agree on things and they are shooting the messenger.

H: Let me tell you something. Some day, some guy is going to fall madly in love with you, buy you a ring, and ask you to marry him.

C: I hope so, Sir.

H: He'll spend the equivalent of a down payment on a house on a party that your friends will all go to out of obligation; and you'll wake up the next morning with 15 toasters and a champagne hangover. You'll look at the lump next to you in bed and you'll go 'Oh my God, I could have bought a house for the amount of money I spent to tie myself to this for the rest of my life.

Despite the Chegwidden-Meredith debacle, the short shtick had everyone in stitches, including Admiral Chegwidden and Mac. But while yesterday the memory produced tears of laughter, today's were due to love.

Wiping the evidence away, Mac whispered emotionally, "You're no lump and tying myself to you is all I ever wanted."

Harm chose that moment to groan, his nostrils flaring beneath the protective splint as if scoffing at the 'all I ever wanted' part; or perhaps in response to the strong smell of cigarette smoke permeating their seats.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" the flight attendant asked quietly, noticing her clearly uncomfortable passengers.

"I'm fine. But a fresh bag of ice might help my husband," Mac answered.

"Sure thing."

"Also, is there anything you can do about the smell?"

"It's from a gentleman who had this seat on the prior flight. I'm told his clothes reeked of smoke. Fortunately, it was only a ninety-minute flight. Otherwise I don't know how he survived being unable to light up. I'll see if there is any Febreze in the galley. It might help."

"Thanks."

Already in a reflective mood, the mention of a chain-smoking addict evoked memories of an investigation conducted with Harm on the USS Gilcrist. It wasn't too long after his return to JAG, following his stint in the CIA -- a period of his life about which she knew little more today than she did back then.

H: This is just like old times -- me and you, sea duty. We ought to get out of Washington more often.

M: It sounds to me like you got out of Washington plenty when you were off playing spy…You'll never tell me what you were doing with the CIA, will you?

H: I can't imagine Clay brings his work home with him.

M: I thought we decided to travel light—leaving the baggage behind.

H: I left my baggage in Paraguay.

M: Yeah and some deep, dark secret you left stateside. But I'll respect your privacy on that.

H: Oh, I guess there is a first time for everything.

Coincidentally, the case occurred during the same time frame that Coates was serving as Admiral Chegwidden's wedding planner, hence Jen's knowledge of Harm's less-than-romantic stance on marital pageantry.

In any event, the investigation on the Gilcrist precipitated Mac and Harm going head-to-head in the courtroom. Harm ended up defending Petty Officer Yates. The young man who, in order to ease his nicotine craving, had neglected his responsibility at the radar array console to have a cigarette, which led to the fatal electrocution of Seaman Duncan. Mac, in turn, was prosecuting Yates, pursuing not only a dereliction of duty charge, but manslaughter as well.

During the proceedings, the truth came out that Petty Officers Miles Yates, Steven Atwood, and Anna Ferrier were involved in a lover's triangle, such as it was or wasn't depending on each of their views.

Prior to the truth being uncovered, the case had brought out the worst in both of them. Mac's own inner turmoil and history of alcoholism drove her to lash out and take the extreme prosecutorial stance. Meanwhile, Harm resorted to flinging hurtful, verbal barbs about her addiction. While he later apologized and they mended the worst of the rift, or at least agreed on a truce, tying herself to Harm never seemed more impossible.

M: Petty Officer Atwood confessed to sabotaging the tag out sheet. I preferred charges and he's being moved to DC to await trial.

H: Well this whole court case pretty much proves your point, doesn't it?

M: (Mac gives Harm a questioning look)

H: About how badly things turn out when co-workers cross the line.

M: Well that wouldn't have happened if they just stayed good friends.

H: Well good friend, how about a sharing a platonic bowl of pasta?

M: I'd love to, but I'm having dinner with Clay.

And that's how they finally parted that day. She riding down alone in the elevator, after Harm suddenly became more interested in taking a private phone call. It wouldn't be until much later that she would learn the caller had been Mattie Grace, and not the mystery woman Harm might have wished her to believe. Even so, thinking back on it all, it was Mac's turn to shift uncomfortably in her seat. For yes, it was true she had dinner plans with Clay. But a wave of guilt descended, knowing there was an element of spite involved when the evening culminated with one of their more successful forays in bed. But then again, when it came to her, Clay, and bed, things weren't always liked they seemed.

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(((The Company is filled with misfits and unwanted transplants.)))

Harm woke with a quiet gasp but kept his throbbing head against the small window. He couldn't recall who had spoken the thought in his dream, but he remembered driving a cab around the Union Station section of Washington. When he turned around to see his passenger in the back seat, he saw himself wrestling an alligator.

No doubt the weird remnants of the dream were a byproduct of seeing old friends and commanding officers the past weekend. And though he couldn't recall anything else of the dream, he felt as if his mind was processing at a mile a minute, but just what it was processing he couldn't say. And that thought was as dark and unsettling as the wide-open ocean 30,000 feet below.

Sensing the difference in his breathing, Mac rubbed her thumb over Harm's hand. When he returned the gesture, she relaxed a little and handed him the fresh bag of ice. He toyed with it in his free hand. Meanwhile, Mac rested her chin on his shoulder and looked down at the same cold water in which Harm had once been physically adrift and was now mentally lost.

"He's dead, you know."

"Who?" Mac asked, lifting her head, clearly taken aback by the sudden declaration.

"Admiral Spencer."

A shudder ran up Mac's spine realizing the eerie parallel between Harm's answer and her thoughts of him being alone in the vast Atlantic Ocean below. For Admiral 'Spoonbender' Spencer had headed the Navy's Stargazer program -- a program which tried to harness ESP until a volunteer in the program died under experimental conditions. Again, Mac had prosecuted; while Harm, more open-minded about the possibilities, had defended the Admiral.

Skeptical of the theories to say the least, Mac had come around a little when a paranormal vision had helped her find Chloe, her 'little sister', who was lost in a wooded area. Later, she set aside any remaining doubts about paranormal possibilities when, in order to save her best friend, she had put her mind, or perhaps more accurately her heart, into finding Harm in the vast ocean.

Consequently, she was grateful to Admiral Spencer for having played an indirect role in saving the two people she cared most about. News of his passing and the strange vibe she felt added to the dark cloud that seemed to be following them home.

"How?"

Harm laid the small ice pack on the bridge of his nose, letting it cover his eyes. "What?"

"How did Admiral Spencer die?"

When he didn't answer, Mac asked again. "Harm? How did he die?"

"I … I don't remember."

The words were spoken so quietly and with such despair that Mac felt compelled to move the ice away from his battered face.

"When did he die?"

When he could only shake his head, she saw the same look of rising panic he had experienced in the ER. She never felt so helpless. And for whatever reason, she was reminded of Admiral Chegwidden's counsel that feelings of helplessness were the nature of love.


	2. Chapter 2

September 21, 2005

Four Weeks Later

It wasn't until they started sharing their lives as husband and wife that Mac fully realized Harmon Rabb Junior was not a morning person. Granted, she had seen some evidence of it during their working relationship, but the commute from his apartment to JAG headquarters had generally been enough to put him on an even keel before he arrived at work.

She also learned that he routinely hit the alarm clock's snooze button up to its maximum three times before the discipline of his military life kicked in and forced him to roll out of bed. Going hand-in-hand with her time-telling skills, she on the other hand, had never needed the mechanical intervention.

Despite her assurance that she would prevent him from oversleeping, Harm stubbornly insisted on setting the alarm every night. However, it didn't take her long to figure out he was doing so to good-naturedly goad her; for while they could no longer go head-to-head in the courtroom, their competitive nature was still strong and remained a fundamental part of each of them.

So this morning, just like every other, she slid the switch to the 'off' position before the clock blared its obnoxious alarm. And like every morning, having completed step one, she proceeded to use a more creative way to wake him. Depending on her mood and time available, she had resorted to such extremes as hot breakfast in bed to ice cubes; and from butterfly kisses to knee-weakening massages.

Today, she ever so lightly ran her finger down the spine of his nose, gratefully noting all vestiges of the baseball bat accident had disappeared. His first two nights after returning from Washington had been fitful -- a combination of jet lag and physical discomfort. But there had been no more nightmares, forgotten or otherwise.

As for drawing a blank on the circumstances regarding Admiral Spencer's death, Harm eventually recalled reading an article in the Navy Times. The retired officer had died quietly in his sleep of a stroke. His passing had occurred during Harm's time in the CIA. Having discussed it, they both chalked up Harm's earlier failure to recall the details of the obituary to fatigue. As far as why he mentioned Spencer in the first place, both believed it was due to them being more in tune with each other's thoughts.

On her elbows, Mac again made another pass down Harm's nose. In response to the on-going titillation, Harm abruptly grabbed her wrist before she could pull away and claim innocence. Not letting her go, he slowly opened one eye before the second followed suit. Eventually the upturned corners of his mouth belied any annoyance.

Mac giggled. "Morning."

Rather than vocally return the pre-dawn greeting, Harm simply rolled over on top of her. Capturing her mouth with his own, he drank in the smell of her – her essence, her hair, her lingering perfume. It never failed to soothe him, ground him, and send him seeking more.

Before he could set out on his quest in earnest, Mac got in edgewise, "I can't be late today." And unlike many mornings, she reluctantly made her escape. "But you can join me in the shower."

"Oh like that's going to save time."

"Suit yourself. But don't you dare fall back to sleep. I have a lot to do and can't be late."

"Why can't you be late? Is something important happening?"

Halfway out of bed, Mac tensed, gripped her pillow, and gave him an alarmed look. Seeing her concern, Harm immediately regretted his flippant tease. "I'm joking."

"You better be," she said, swinging her pillow and nailing him in the chest. "Now get it in gear!"

"Will you relax. The party isn't until tonight."

"Harm, you have no idea what goes into something like this."

Swinging his own pillow, Harm grinned when he scored a direct hit on Mac's retreating six. "Sure I do. It's all based on pragmatic thinking, common sense, and good manners."

"Spoken by the man who originally thought diplomacy was mysterious and pretentious," Mac said over her shoulder, making a beeline for the bathroom.

Giving her solitary access to their one bathroom, Harm lay in bed and listened contently as Mac began humming. It was the first thing he discovered about her when they started sharing their lives as husband and wife. In the midst of trying to identify the melody, he heard the unmistakable sound of the mouse trap being sprung in the basement; and that brought him to the second thing he learned about her.

It wasn't that she was afraid of mice. In fact, at first she really didn't mind them hanging around. But that changed the day she found the telltale signs of one chewing on her chocolate bar. It just happened to be the same day she found one swimming in her cake mix batter. That's when she made him put traps in the kitchen and basement.

But even with all her 'Marine Might', she agonized over the decision to do so the first time she heard one of the creature's pitiful squeals when the trap didn't instantly put it out of its misery.

Hearing the frantic cry and the clip-clap of the trap striking the floor as the captured vermin continued to struggle for release, Harm did what he always did. He groaned, rolled out of bed, and went to finish what the trap started.

The deed done, he returned upstairs and turned his attention to more pleasant thoughts and surveyed his closet. Because of a coin toss, he readied his clothes for not only the day but the evening as well.

When the flipped JAG medallion landed in his favor, Mac had resigned her commission and promptly found a position in the Defense Attache Office at the U.S. Embassy in London. The DAO performed representational functions on behalf of the Secretary of Defense and Secretaries of the military services, including the SECNAV and the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

As operations coordinator, Mac managed several assistants who worked under the Defense Attache. Included in her scope of responsibilities was overseeing a plethora of social events hosted by her boss, including the full-blown, formal affair planned later today.

It hadn't taken them long to learn that Mac's new position came ready-equipped with a role for Harm as well. For when it came to diplomacy, there was a long-established tenet in the diplomatic service that spouses were expected to uphold their end of the arrangement as well. Thus Harm was well accustomed to attending the evening functions in which Mac was involved.

While the extracurricular duty made for some long days, the burden was eased given the close proximity of their workplaces. For the U.S. Embassy was located on Grosvenor Square, right next to the Navy Headquarters Building where Harm's command was located.

But though their offices were only fifty yards apart, it might as well have been fifty miles given the rare occasions that their paths crossed during normal business hours. To compensate, they commuted together, driving one vehicle into London, unless one of their arrival or departure needs changed or conflicted, in which case the mass-transit trains served as backup.

Today they would be traveling together, both staying in town until tonight's dinner dance. The same event Harm has feigned ignorance about earlier. And the same event that required a wardrobe change. Thus he carefully put his formal Navy mess dress, complete with gold cummerbund and shiny, black shoes, into the garment bag. He then spotted what Mac had picked out for the evening.

Looking at the alluring dress, there was a hint of melancholy in his sigh as his shoulders slumped. Under normal circumstances, the dress would fulfill high expectations. But tonight there would be little opportunity to capitalize on the enjoyment while they followed proper protocol. A protocol that required they mingle separately with the crowd, facilitate chitchat, and generally help make all the guests feel welcome. At least the conversations were kept blessedly short, a requirement if they were to meet and greet at many people as possible.

"Do I at least get to sit with you at dinner?" Harm asked when Mac exited the bathroom.

"Of course. I might even save you a dance. But don't be late. It's chaos when someone can't make it at the last minute or brings an unexpected guest," Mac warned, her mind already going through a mental checklist of details.

"Round tables, Mac."

There was a silent beat before Mac's laughter rang out and once again brightened the early morning hour. Harm smiled, his simple statement having elicited the response he intended.

As their pre-work routine unfolded, they both fondly recalled how Mac had once agonized over the complicated process of proper seating placements. Aggravated with the task, she verbally took Harm's head off when he tried to help. In the end, she contritely admitted his suggestion to use round tables was an acceptable alternative listed in the 'Manual for the Modern Diplomat.' From that point on, she relied on the ovals to provide as many people as possible with 'seats of honor' and deal effortlessly with last minute changes to the guest list.

---------------

"How could you!"

"So she speaks after all!" Harm replied, unlocking the door to their flat, barely getting out of the way as Mac stormed by after the long day.

The ride home had been done sans conversation, both steadfastly listening to the radio to avoid talking about the situation until they got home.

"Why were you late?"

"Like I told your secretary when I couldn't reach you, something came up at work that required me to go to RAF Daws Hill. I did everything in my power to get back in time for dinner."

"How conveniently vague – something came up."

Mac kicked off her spiked heels then started stripping off her dress, choosing to deal with the complicated clasp herself rather than ask for help. Meanwhile, Harm fumbled with the rugged zipper on the duffle bag in which he had stuffed his soiled uniform.

"Can I explain?" he asked.

"Not right now!"

"Fine! Obviously things worked out for the best!"

Mac spun around to face him. "What do you mean by that!"

"You said he wasn't on the guest list. So I assume he just took my vacancy at the dinner table!"

"Well it sounds like you know more about it than me!"

Harm impatiently gave up on the stubborn zipper for the time being, choosing instead to get out of his formalwear. Stripped to the waist, he shouted, "What are you talking about!"

"The whole brotherhood, cloak-and-dagger mentality. I thought you left that all behind!"

"You think I had something to do with him being there!"

The slamming of the bathroom door was Harm's answer.

Thirty minutes later, Mac felt much better. Calmed by the scented lavender candles and aroma of chamomile oil in her bath water, she toweled off, taking time to indulge in her favorite body powder. Tying off her bathrobe, she captured the fragrance and exited the room, equally ready to apologize, forgive, and forget. The need to do so was made all the more urgent given her upcoming work responsibilities. Responsibilities requiring she leave for Paris first thing in the morning, accompanying her boss for a working weekend with their counterparts in France.

Last minute changes to the agenda left little time for personal excursions and sightseeing. Thus she and Harm changed their own plans, deciding recently that it made little sense for him to join her. Consequently, it would be their first separation since being married. In light of their squabble, she now regretted the decision, hated the need to go, and wanted nothing more than to make it up to him.

"Harm, it's your turn. Where are you? We need to talk about tomorrow."

She found him standing motionless in the small laundry room, holding the white shirt the stubborn duffel had finally given up. Coming up behind him, she wrapped her arms around his bare waist, resting her head on his broad back. "I'm sorry about earlier. Put the laundry off until tomorrow so you have some hot water for your shower."

When he didn't answer or move, she relinquished her hold, and moved around to face him. "Harm?"

"I'm sorry, Mac. What did you just say?"

Frightened by the look on his face and the way he had a white-knuckle grasp on the shirt, Mac asked instead, "What's wrong?"

Suddenly realizing he had a death grip on the garment, he relaxed his hold, tossing the shirt into the hamper. His hands free, he pulled Mac closer, their foreheads meeting. "Bad day."

"Want to talk about it?"

"It has to do with why I was late."

"I'm ready to listen."

"There's not much to tell. The MPs called me to Daws Hill when they smelled decomposing remains in a metal shipment container off loaded at the base."

Startled by the news, Mac pulled back. "That's terrible!"

"It smelled so bad, you know the kind of odor that just sticks in your nose and to your clothes. It made me so sick I lost my lunch. I can still smell it."

Mac ran her hands across Harm's tense back, feeling the slight tremor coursing through it. "Do they know who it was?" she asked quietly.

To break the tension, Harm smirked embarrassedly before tightening his grip on her. "It turned out to be a dog, a family pet of one of the Marines recently transferred there. It went missing just before the family moved. When it returned home and found them gone, it must have crawled into the shipping container and lay amongst their belongings, unbeknownst to the packers."

Mac sought Harm's lips. "I'm sorry I didn't give you a chance to explain earlier."

"And I'm sorry for overreacting," Harm countered between breaths, his hands making quick work of the white, terry-cloth belt around Mac's waist.

Mac's hands found the zipper of Harm's trousers. "Do you want to talk about Webb?"

Harm blazed a trail of kisses down Mac's neck. "No. Do you?"

Mac returned the passion with a trail across his chest. "No. You remember I'm leaving for Paris tomorrow morning?"

Harm cupped one of Mac's breasts in each hand. "God, I'm going to miss you. It'll be a lonely weekend."

"Let's make up for that now."

"My thoughts exactly," Harm replied, his shower and earlier trepidation long since forgotten as they headed for the bedroom.

-------------------

Harm leapt out of his skin -- skin that was dripping with sweat. His dry mouth gave up a final scream that continued to reverberate in the room long after he dislodged his racing heart from his throat. Falling back against the clammy sheets, he lay still and regulated his breathing. Taking back control of his heaving chest amidst the charged silence, he set his mind to recalling any remnants of the fleeting nightmare.

By a cruel twist, the alarm clock chose that moment to uncharacteristically sound its Friday morning alert. The unexpected intrusion elicited a startled cry that was drowned out by the high-pitched wail. Embarrassed by his reaction and the realization that his 'morning wood' was in full blossom, Harm grimaced and turned on his side to deal with the annoyance.

It wasn't until he successfully swatted the snooze button that he realized dejectedly Mac's side of the bed was empty. It wasn't until he smelled the remnants of their lovemaking that he realized he already missed her. And it wasn't until he picked up the note on her pillow that he realized his hands were trembling.

Studying his shaking fingers, he couldn't help but voice the gnawing fear. "What's happening to me?" Immediately rebuking the little voice that said he should get checked out, he flopped back on the bed. Self-medicating, he curled tight around Mac's pillow and drifted.

When the alarm startled him from the sound sleep he'd fallen into, he silenced it permanently, not giving the third snooze reminder a chance to kick in. As he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, he turned his attention to the paper he had forgotten he was holding.

Harm, We got to sleep so late gr . I didn't want to wake you. I'm staying at the Hotel Champerret Elysees. The number is +33(0)1 43 80 22 19. Better yet, use my cell. I'll stop by your office Monday morning when I get back. Love, Mac.

---------------

Focusing on work, Harm stopped thinking about the uneasiness his forgotten extracurricular sleep activities had caused hours ago. Skipping lunch, he finished his fifth and last meeting of the day right on schedule. Checking his personal voice mail, he frowned when he realized he had again missed Mac's call. Each of them had now left two messages. Meaning in four attempts they had failed to connect with each other. Calling it a day, he left a third message on his way to his SUV.

"Hi, it's me. I'm on my way home. Try me again if you get a chance. Love, ya."

Harm snapped the phone shut and pulled out his keys. His thoughts turned to what he was going to do with a Mac-less weekend just before the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. A moment later, the nicotine-spearmint smell behind him alerted him to someone's presence the same instant he felt the barrel of the gun pressed between two ribs.

"Who are you?" Harm asked calmly, his voice masking the rising tension building throughout his body.

"You don't remember?"

"No."

The woman tossed her head back and laughed. "Very good, Rabb. You're not supposed to."

The position of the gun and the woman's grasp on his belt caused Harm to lean back into the woman's embrace. "What do you want?"

She smiled. "You. Now don't do anything stupid. Just get in your car."

"No."

"If you want to see your wife again, get in the car -- now. Passenger side, I'm driving."

"My wife?"

The woman leaned closer into Harm. To any passersby her posture conveyed a tasteless display of overt affection as she whispered in his ear, "You sound intrigued."

Alarmed by the threat, Harm took it seriously when the woman flashed a picture of Mac standing in front of the Hotel Champerret Elysees. Flicking the switch on his key ring, he unlocked the electronic doors.

"That's a good boy. Now get in."

Sliding across the front seat, Harm was unprepared for the pain that bit into his side when the woman pulled the gun's trigger. He slumped heavily against her, feeling the keys pulled from his hand while she whispered in his face, "Sleep well."

Trying to pull away from the woman's cigarette-laden, TicTac-camouflaged breath, he only accomplished unleashing another barrage of confusing dreams.

-----------------------

(begin dream)

Hearing footsteps echoing through the large hangar, Alan Blaisdell looked up from the large map on the table.

"Well the prodigal son returns," he said, squashing the last dregs of the smoldering cigarette butt with his heel.

Harm smirked. "It was only four weeks."

The older man carefully sized up his most talented employee before grousing, "Yeah, but it was a week longer than expected."

"You missed me. I'm touched."

"Dream on. What's wrong with your voice?"

Harm smiled warmly. In the time he had been gone, his newest mentor hadn't changed. Blaisdell's gruff demeanor still did little to hide the sincere concern that lurked beneath the worn, exterior façade.

"Sore throat, last remnants of a bad cold."

"Must have been a hell of one. You've lost weight."

"They kept me busy. I hardly had time to come up for air and grab a bite to eat."

"How did it go?"

"Fine. Do I detect worry?"

"I just don't like my people being pulled out from under me. And not everyone has the constitution for the kind of work Premier Executive Transport Services requires," Blaisdell answered warily, closely watching Harm's reaction.

Harm shrugged and looked around at the few planes in the area. "I can't deny the line of work really wasn't my cup of tea, but their hardware sure is better to fly."

"Oh yeah? What did they put you in?"

(end dream)

----------------

As Harm lifted his splitting head, he rubbed the ache in his side where the dart delivering the strong sedative had entered. His blurry vision rapidly focused on his new surroundings, though his words were still slurred, his brain sluggish, and his head felt as if someone had taken an ax to it. "You work for PETS …"

"Pets?" the woman asked, casually blowing another ring of cigarette smoke in his face.

Harm coughed. "… Premier Executive Transport Services."

Straightening Harm's body in the seat, the woman yanked the shoulder straps tighter. "What makes you think that?"

"It's their jet," Harm answered, carefully looking around the plane that had been his to fly for four weeks.

The sleek Gulfstream G550 was the longest range, business aircraft in the world. Manufactured in Savannah, Georgia, by Gulfstream Aerospace, it was often purchased by the richest CEO's at a cost of $46 million each. Capable of holding 14-19 passengers, depending on how it was configured, it could fly 6700 miles before re-fuelling. With seven windows on either side, the cabin was 50 feet long and a little over 7 feet wide. For most people, the height in the middle was an adequate 6'2".

"How do you know it's the same one you flew?"

Harm coughed again. "I didn't say I flew it."

"You're right. You didn't. But we both know you did, so how do you know for sure?"

"The stain on the carpet," Harm answered lethargically, a wave of dizziness forcing him to close his eyes.

"Yeah, it's a pity. Now drink this, it'll help neutralize the sedative."

Harm turned his head to the side. "No."

"Drink it!"

"Sissy, need help?"

Harm turned his head back to meet the new arrival. There was little doubt the two were related, their faces both having the same bone structure, their eye and hair color exact matches. Likely brother and sister, given the appellation used by the large man, perhaps even twins.

"No, Gregor. Everything is fine. You did good," 'Sissy' answered.

"Gregor did good. Gregor did good," the man repeated, clapping his hands in a child-like gesture.

"… strong, cheap labor," Harm whispered.

The words were no sooner out of his mouth when Harm's cheek erupted in fire. The woman's hand had struck him hard, the contact creating a sharp crack in the air, no doubt audible throughout the plane. "You don't get to say that!"

Meanwhile Gregor paced nervously in the limited space. "Don't hurt 52 … don't hurt 52."

"It's okay, Gregor. Go take a seat in the back. We'll be leaving soon."

Harm gingerly rubbed the stinging result of the woman's fury, noting the shadow of doubt, or was it fear, crossing her face. Clearly the man was mentally challenged and likely the answer to how the woman could have manhandled his limp body from the SUV into the plane. But that didn't explain why he had voiced the insensitive thought in the first place. Nor explain the increased anxiety building in his gut ever since learning his whereabouts or the woman's apparent association with PETS.

After viciously smothering the cigarette butt in an armrest ashtray, the woman shook three green Tic-Tac's into her hand. Breathing deeply, she popped them into her mouth while nervously rattling the remainder in the plastic container. Getting herself under control, she said, "You can call me Cynthia. Sissy is reserved for my brother. It's his attempt at pronouncing my name," she grinned.

When Harm didn't reply, Cynthia pulled out the same picture of Mac that had coerced him before. When he refused to acknowledge it, she produced a newer one as well and grabbed his chin until he couldn't help but look at them.

"She looks like she's having fun. Cooperate and you'll both be enjoying a Monday night romp in your bed. Refuse and a simple phone call ends it all."

Harm immediately recognized the Eiffel Tower. Mac was centered between her boss and another male colleague as they posed for a happy group picture. He shoved the sting of jealousy aside, or was it a sense of betrayal? It didn't matter; the pictures had gotten his attention.

"Now drink it."

Knowing his thought processes weren't functioning at a hundred percent, Harm begrudgingly drank the glass of milky liquid. Amazingly fast, the chalky drink lifted the mental fog that had hovered around him since he woke and found himself in the Gulfstream's cockpit, sitting in the pilot's seat.

His mind firing again on all cylinders, Harm decided Clayton Webb was involved. His surprise appearance at the Embassy party had to be more than coincidence. He had arrived too late to cross paths with the CIA agent, but Mac made it perfectly clear Webb had been there. But why? Where Webb stood these days, personally or professionally, was a mystery to Harm. More unsettling, however, was why the Company felt they had to strong arm a U.S. Naval Captain back into its employ. In any event, one thing was certain – without more details, there was no way in hell he was going to put Mac's life at risk.

"What's this all about?" Harm demanded.

"I need a pick-up and delivery made."

'I' not 'We' Harm thought. Did he have a rogue agent on his hands? "Why the coercion and subterfuge?"

"You'll see. Heathrow Control has given us clearance to take-off and we won't get to Staszow unless you first get us out of the hangar."

"Euro-Weather is reporting eastern Poland is blanketed with fog," Harm stubbornly replied.

"Quit stalling! The Gulfstream is equipped with EVS. Yet here you sit playing games! I assure you the threat against your wife is very real."

Harm remained quiet, biting his lip. Finally, he checked the aircraft's Enhanced Vision System that made landing in lower-visibility instrument conditions possible. It was then Cynthia knew they would get to the pickup site. And she still had her ace-in-the-hole to get them back.

Harm completed the pre-flight checklist, at least the items he could do tethered to his seat. When he was done, he turned to the co-pilot's seat. "There's no smoking on board."

"The hell there isn't," the woman shot back, intending to chain smoke from here on out.

----------------

Harm had landed the Gulfstream on the small runway at Staszow once before. It was a simple courier run squeezed in between countless hops zigzagging both the northern and southern hemispheres. Hell, it was no wonder he had gotten sick and lost weight. He hadn't stepped foot in his apartment or slept in his bed the entire assignment.

He remembered the asphalt runway wasn't in as poor condition as some of the places Blaisdell had sent him, but neither was it anywhere close to meeting FAA standards. The handful of cars in the parking lot suggested the small airport did little, if any, passenger business. The large, aluminum quonset structures, on the other hand, likely meant cargo was the airport's main trade. And on this late, foggy, Friday night, that meant the red and blue lights illuminating the runway served as the only welcoming committee, hospitable or otherwise, in sight.

"Taxi into Building 13."

"Thirteen, that's comforting," Harm said warily, slowly maneuvering the aircraft to the building the woman pointed out. The eerie fog, sparse setting, and lack of human activity gave the place a ghost-town quality that sent shivers up Harm's spine. (((It's worse than the last time.)))

"Gregor, wake up. We're here."

"Time to eat?"

"Time for what we came to do," she answered, producing a set of handcuffs. "Not you. You're staying," she added when Harm started to reach for the release mechanism on the pilot restraints.

Pulling his arms behind the seat, Cynthia handcuffed Harm's wrists together before making sure his seatbelt and shoulder straps were still secure.

"I guess this means I can't use the little boy's room."

Expelling yet another circle of smoke in his face, Cynthia smirked. "I'm afraid the sedative and its counteragent are natural diuretics. Hold it, or make another stain. Suit yourself."

Harm considered his choices. The stain on the rug was coffee. But if he didn't get to a men's room soon, the next pilot might find something less acceptable in his seat.

Popping more Tic-Tacs in her mouth, the woman ignored his discomfort and flipped a switch, triggering open the Gulfstream's hydraulic cargo bay doors. She then vacated her seat in the cockpit and headed towards the roomier cabin area.

No longer in sight, Harm could only listen as her fist rapped on the passenger hatch. Shortly after, a series of short, staccato thumps originated on the other side. Seemingly satisfied with the coded response, Cynthia opened the hatch and dropped the stairs. If nothing else, Harm was grateful for the wave of fresh air that helped dispel the smoky cloud lingering in the cockpit.

"Gregor, let's go."

----------------

Alone, Harm squirmed in his seat, the need to urinate growing more urgent. To take his mind off it, he concentrated on the echoing sounds in the metal hangar. He heard the two sets of feet pound down the expandable steps. Shortly after, the unmistakable putter of a jitney started. Spotting the dingy-yellow vehicle, he craned his neck, watching the two-pronged forklift maneuver a metal shipping container towards the middle of the jet. His eyes followed the activity.

However, once it neared the fuselage, it was no longer in his field of vision. But he soon heard and felt the distinct metal-on-metal grating vibrate through the aircraft. Given its size, the six-foot square container would only leave a few cubic feet of space in the storage compartment -- a tight squeeze, no matter how you figured it.

After the container was in place, the jitney was silenced and relative silence ensued. Relative silence until an extra pair of feet on the metal steps increased the number of passengers to three. Harm's head swiveled around, but not quickly enough to identify the newcomer who immediately retreated to the well-stocked beverage bar at the back of the plane. Gregor, on the other hand, chose to remain closer to the cockpit.

"Who's your friend?" Harm asked wanting to sound derisive, but failing miserably. The long day, lack of food, powerful sedative, and futile attempts to free himself from the seatbelt restraints and handcuffs had taken their toll. His head lolled forward until his chin rested on his chest.

"Need to know," Cynthia answered, frowning as her shanghaied pilot closed his eyes.

"And after I make this delivery, will I know too much?" he asked tiredly.

The woman reached into her pocket. "Time will tell," she answered, snapping the small ammonia capsule in half before wafting it beneath his nose.

Harm's head shot up, seeking escape, but finding none. Seeing the outright disdain on his face, Cynthia smiled. "I have go-pills if you require more invigoration." When he didn't answer, she tortured him with another pass of the capsule.

"Stop it! I'm awake."

Seeing that he was more alert, Cynthia reached behind his back and unlocked the handcuffs. She then handed him a piece of paper. "See to it that you stay awake. Now let's go. Those are the coordinates for the delivery."

Reading them, Harm's stomach lurched. "No. This can't be. I won't do it."

"Yes you will. You'll do it for him," she said, adding a photo to the paper in Harm's hand. "He's nearly two. I believe he inherited your features. Let's hope he got my brains."

Fighting the creeping fear the words engendered, Harm looked at the small, pocket-size photo, the kind taken at Walmart around Christmas. To the unsuspecting soul, the little dark-haired boy with bright eyes might very well have been his son.

"I've never banked sperm and I certainly didn't copulate with you."

The woman, seemingly having a veritable picture album at her disposal, produced yet another photo. She thrust it at him. "Are you positive?"

Harm's eyes immediately darted to the image. When his mind finally caught up, his face conveyed disbelief. Before he could pose a single question, the woman pulled the photo away and simply said "Need to know. Now let's go."


	3. Chapter 3

Monday, September 25, 2005

Having caught an early flight, Mac hurried home, hoping to catch Harm before he left for work. Aside from the short excursion to the Eiffel Tower, she had pretty much been unavailable to take calls all weekend. When she did return the short, redundant messages he left on the hotel phone, she couldn't connect with him. Still, worry and concern consistently won out over hurt and confrontation. There had to be a simple explanation -- an explanation that might leave her angry at his inconsiderate behavior, but thoroughly relieved about his welfare.

Paying the taxi fare, she pulled out her keys when she reached their front door. Worry turned to outright fear when two days of mail and three days of newspapers greeted her.

Surely if he had been in an accident, someone would have tracked her down -- unless he had slipped in the shower and lay unconscious over the weekend, unless he … Possibilities that didn't make any sense streamed in until the bearing of a professional investigator snapped in place.

Stepping cautiously inside, Mac called out, "Harm? Harm, I'm home." The answering silence rang loud in her ears, threatening to drain the blood from her head.

Leaving her bags inside the door, she hurried to the shower. Immediately there was a modicum of relief finding it empty, but it still left the ultimate question unanswered. 'Where are you?'

She resumed searching the flat for any signs, part of her hoping to find something, part of her hoping not. In her absence, it was clear Harm hadn't skipped the dishes, the laundry, or the bed-making. It was also clear he hadn't retrieved any of her messages on their land line. The realization made her vision swim. Her thoughts turned to Clayton Webb, CIA, deception, and lies.

Staring at the offensive answering machine, Mac physically jumped when the phone rang.

"Hello!"

"Mrs. Rabb?"

"Speaking!"

"It's Petty Officer Timmons from Captain Rabb's office, Ma'am."

Thank God, Mac thought. Closing her eyes, she was ready to listen to any explanation that would make her world stop spinning.

"Is he there, Ma'am?" Timmons asked.

And just like that, the flicker of optimism she had permitted herself was extinguished. From that point on, she could only manage a simple, "What?"

"Ma'am, Captain Rabb was scheduled for a 0700 breakfast meeting, but he hasn't arrived yet. Do you know if he's on his way?"

----------------

Having established that Friday afternoon was the last time anyone from Harm's command had seen him, Mac didn't think twice about using all resources available to her. After all, she worked in the Defense Attache Office, an office quite capable of connecting the U.S. Military with the local metropolitan police and its high-tech resources. Eager to get to the bottom of things as well, Mac's boss, Preston Stahl, facilitated a meeting with Chief Constable Leonard Wickham of the City of London Police Department.

London was among the most security-conscious cities in the world. Indignant or not, that meant the citizenry dealt with a degree of electronic surveillance many Americans might balk at. Video cameras mounted in subways, on buildings, and in select nooks and crannies monitored nearly every street in the city. Domestic wiretaps, airwave monitoring, and internet tracking systems complemented the watchdog activities.

"We have an address from which several calls were made using the number you provided," Constable Wickham announced.

Mac accepted and quickly pocketed the slip of paper containing the address information. "Thank you."

"Does it mean anything to you?" Preston Stahl asked.

"Not really, Sir. It was just a number left on our answering machine," she lied.

"Ma'am, you're sure Captain Rabb left at 1730 on Friday?" Inspector Bergman asked, anxious to show off his technical talents.

"I'm positive. It's the time he signed out at the security desk and minutes before he left a phone message on my cell explaining he was on his way home," Mac answered.

"This is footage from the Audley CCTV starting at 1730," the young inspector explained, replaying video captured by the closed circuit television camera.

"There he is!" Mac pointed out Harm's tall frame exiting the Navy Headquarters Building. "He's heading in the direction of the Kensington Square parking lot."

It was odd watching Harm on the silent, black and white video, an activity somewhere between voyeurism and invasion of privacy. But Mac couldn't help drink it all in. Her eyes never left him as he negotiated the bustling sidewalk. His gate, his bearing, the way he looked up and rubbed his neck while waiting for the traffic light to change in his favor. How he paused at the Embassy arch, their usual meeting place at the end of the day. The friendly wave he gave to the familiar security guard.

"I've factored in a two minute walk and jumped to one of the cameras monitoring the lot," Inspector Bergman explained while working the console. Like clockwork, Harm appeared in the next frame. "His cell phone is out. That coincides with his call to you, Ma'am."

Though their view was frequently interrupted with passing traffic, it was sufficient to see the scene unfold. Outwardly Mac squirmed in her seat as the woman slipped behind Harm with open familiarity and leaned into him. Inwardly she ached, a piece of her heart fracturing when Harm reacted to the seduction with casual assurance.

"Do you recognize the woman?" Mac's boss asked cautiously when neither the Constable nor Inspector appeared anxious to speak.

"Umm, no. I don't think so," Mac answered quietly.

Even without Mac's awkward fidgeting and uncertainty, the group's first impression was clear. To them the public tryst between the handsome officer and attractive woman looked more like a prelude to romantic foreplay than overt foul play. It didn't matter that the video quality was too grainy to say if Harm's expression was grin or grimace.

Mac didn't need a degree in human nature to read the non-verbal language in the room. She stood angrily. "It's not what it looks like!" Unfortunately, there was little concrete evidence to the contrary.

When a large delivery truck double parked, it blocked everyone's view of the soap-operatic drama. A minute later the show continued with footage of the departing SUV. Freezing the action on an unobstructed frame, Inspector Bergman worked his magic. Zooming in on a side window, the pair was spotted in the front seat -- the woman's arm was around Harm's shoulders; his face was buried in her neck.

"Mrs. Rabb, rest assured we'll check other surveillance cameras and see if we can backtrack the woman's arrival. Perhaps there's something to help identify her," Constable Wickham added diplomatically.

Acknowledging the offer with a nod of her head, Mac turned to her boss, prepared to resign on the spot if necessary. "Sir, I need some time off."

Preston Stahl had been around long enough to know Captain Rabb held sufficient rank to schedule leave on a relative whim. That he forgot to tell a subordinate was now unfortunate and a prelude to much scuttlebutt. He thanked God his staff hadn't been blessed with any aviators. Their cavorting was legendary. Then again, if the pictures he had seen from his recent Embassy party were any indication, turnabout was fair play. Nevertheless, anxious to spare his capable assistant any more embarrassment, Stahl responded compassionately. "Take all the time you need."

"Thank you, Sir."

While she had responded stoically, Mac wanted to run as fast as possible from the room. Not because of the overwhelming innuendo screaming marital infidelity but because she had gotten what she really came for – Clayton Webb's whereabouts. In all honesty, she had no remorse fibbing about how she obtained his phone number.

---------------

Hearing the door creak behind her, Mac spun around, caught in the act of rummaging through the small armoire. Clenched in her hand was the pack of matches she had found in the pants pocket.

"Where is he!"

Clayton Webb stopped short, only slightly startled. Stepping into the tossed room, he closed the door behind him. Pulling the non-descript wrapping off the new bottle of cognac, he tossed the former into the waste can and set the latter on the cluttered dresser.

"Sarah, this is a pleasant surprise," he answered, rummaging amongst the mess for a clean glass. "Shall we?"

"Shall we what?"

Webb simply nodded to the bed. And that's all it took. Mac covered the distance between them in two steps, flung him around, and deposited him onto his back in the middle of the mattress. The bottle of liquor smashed to the floor, emptying its contents across the old floorboards.

Webb smirked. "You always did like it rough."

Mac applied her open hand across his cheek to wipe the offending leer from his face. Seeing she had his attention, she tried again, "Where's Harm?"

Webb rubbed the sore spot. "And here I thought you came for an unconditional roll in the hay."

"That's obscene!"

"Is it, Sarah? Isn't that the real reason you often slept with me – for information about Harm."

"What information, Clay! Every time I asked 'need to know' came out of your mouth. It's not good enough this time! What has he been pulled into?"

Enjoying the physical contact, Webb didn't squirm as Mac pinned his wrists next to the pillow, her knee planted in his solar plexus. In contrast to Mac's rising anger, he continued calmly in his infuriating manner. "Did you ever tell Harm about our lovemaking? How you used it for leverage to gain knowledge about his dealings in the Company? Tell me, once he was back in Chegwidden's good graces, what was our relationship based on then – a way to get back at him, hurt him, keep your distance from him, what?"

"You can't accept I ended it with you at Manderle," Mac answered instead. In truth she hadn't told Harm the lengths she went to back then for any sliver of information about his whereabouts. In fact she lied when he asked about it – pillow talk he had called it. But at the time, she was desperate. No one had heard from him. It was as if he had fallen off the face of the earth. Once back in the Navy, she could see he was safe. Still she continued seeing Clay, not knowing how to undo 'never'.

"Did he find my phone number in your cleavage? Did you even tell him you had it?"

Mac's face filled with disgust. She hadn't told Harm how Clay had slipped the information unobtrusively inside her dress while they danced at the Embassy party. She hadn't even told him about the dance. The whole fiasco had occurred because Harm was late. And because of his tardiness, she had to politely endure Clay being seated in Harm's vacant seat, politely engage him in ridiculous conversation, and later, like any good employee involved in diplomatic service, politely accept his hand when he asked to dance. To do otherwise would have caused an inappropriate scene.

The entire charade had been infused with anger -- anger towards Harm for being late, anger towards Webb for taking advantage of the setting, and anger towards herself for not decking him on the dance floor when his bold intimacy surpassed the limits of diplomatic decorum. His sordid behavior left in its wake a small piece of paper hidden firmly in the bodice of her dress. In the private confines of the ladies room, she found it to be his phone number with the message 'Call me.'

Ready to confront his immature conduct, she returned to the dance floor. Finding he had slipped silently away, she took out her frustration on a late arriving Harm – chastising him for the reentry of Clayton Webb, and all that he stood for, back into their lives.

Drawn back to the present, Mac backed off the bed. Ignoring the wooden chair in the small boardinghouse bedroom, she began pacing the confined space like a cornered lioness, ready to pounce again given the slightest provocation. "Damnit, Clay! At least tell me if he's in danger! Who is the woman? And did you really think I'd call you?"

Free to move again, Webb sat up and threw his legs over the side of the bed. His vision momentarily blurred from the motion. When the room refocused, he stood and went to the small sink in the corner. After splashing his face with cold water, he set about to make a pot of coffee.

"I didn't even know you'd be there. But once I saw you, I thought Harm might be involved. But he wasn't around to ask. And I couldn't stick around to explain."

"Damn you."

"I didn't have a choice."

"Right, you always do what the Company tells you!"

"That's the way it works! You know that!"

"Why couldn't you wait for Harm?"

"The person I was tracking was leaving. I had to follow them."

"Aren't you the least bit worried about him!"

"Of course I am! I haven't forgotten he saved my life!"

The realization of what was at stake sobered them both. After the shouting match, silence descended over the room. Webb was the first to break the pensive interlude. Treading carefully, he said, "Look, if he cooperates, I don't think he's in danger."

Mac pulled a picture from her purse. Inspector Bergman had provided her with it before she fled. "Do you know this woman?"

Webb looked at the proffered photo and sighed. "Her name is Cynthia McPherson. She's loosely aligned with PETS - Premier Executive Transport Services."

Mac shook her head, the added bit of information and Webb's carefully couched answer did little to shed any light on what was going on. She opened her clutched hand, showing him the matches from the Hotel Champerret Elysees. "Why were you in Paris?"

"When Harm didn't call me, I went to watch his back."

"You make it sound so noble, considering he wasn't even there."

"The intel I got was that he was traveling with you to Paris. But you obviously changed plans."

"You're saying it's my fault he doesn't have backup?"

"No, damn it."

Not wanting to waste time arguing the point, Mac returned to something more relevant. "What exactly is PETS and how is Harm involved?"

Webb stood and ran his hand through his hair. It was his turn to pace. "Sarah, go home. Harm will turn up. You'll want to be there when he does."

Mac positioned a chair in front of the door then sat defiantly on it, making it clear she didn't intend to leave. "No! I'll not stand by and wait for another of your ops to go south."

"It not my op!"

"Fine, whatever. Tell me what you know."

Knowing she wouldn't easily be thrown off the scent, Webb did just that.

"PETS is based in Portland, Oregon. They own a number of Gulfstream aircraft. But according to FAA records, there is no contact information for the company's lone corporate officer, a Jason Smith. There's no public record at all for Jason Smith, no residential address, no telephone number, nothing. The company and Smith exist only on paper. He's been issued a Social Security Number and a post office box in Arlington, Virginia. The same box number has been issued to 65 other fictitious names and companies."

Clay paused, waiting for Mac to put the pieces together. She didn't disappoint.

"You're telling me PETS is a dummy corporation and Jason Smith is a false identity created by the CIA to conceal one of their operations."

Clay nodded. "It's a cover for their secret charter service to shuttle detainees to interrogation facilities. Everything is clandestine. Even their fight plans go unpublished."

Mac was familiar with the concept of 'Ghost Prisons'. There had been much in the press recently regarding their alleged existence. The CIA was reputed to have such facilities in Egypt, Syria, Uzbekistan, Poland, Romania, and Hungary. All launched after September 2001 to secretly kidnap suspected terrorists and transport them to foreign lands where they could be interrogated using methods outlawed by the United States.

The CIA had solicited legal authorization from the Justice Department to deal with the treatment of these prisoners. Consequently, the detainees were slotted into a newly created category called 'illegal enemy combatants'. Some said it was a category which placed them in a sub-human class, lacking all basic human rights. Proponents of such a classification argued there were people so bad they didn't deserve the protection of the law. Opponents argued, in the absence of a trial, who determines if the people detained as 'illegal combatants' are either 'illegal' or even 'combatants'.

Mac's mouth was dry as she considered the implications. "Harm?"

Clay voiced what she could not. "According to his record, he did a stint with PETS."

"Oh God…It's my fault … all because of Paraguay! All because of--"

"Sarah … Sarah, listen! It was Harm's decision to sign on with the Agency, and his decision alone. Once he did, he didn't get to pick and choose his assignments. If we're going to win the War on Terror, some things must be done quietly, using whatever methods available. He knew that too."

"But he doesn't work for the Agency any more and they have other pilots! What have they had him doing the last 66 hours?"

A knock at the door and a finger to his lips silenced any answer Webb might have given. Mac slipped the concealed gun from her purse and moved away from the entrance. Meanwhile Clay peered through the peep hole. "It's okay. Put the gun away. I was expecting him."

Mac watched as he moved the chair away, disengaged the deadbolt, and opened the door.

"Colonel MacKenzie, this is a surprise."

"Admiral Spencer!"

Webb's brow wrinkled into a droll expression. "I take it the two of you have met?"


	4. Chapter 4

Friday, September 22, 2005

Two And a Half Days Earlier

It was three hours ago that the cargo had been loaded onto the jet. It was also three hours ago that Harm was unsuccessful in getting his head around the implausible image. But the woman didn't offer any explanation; she only reminded him yet again that it was more than his life at stake should he be uncooperative. Thus, with a part of his mind on the picture, a part of it on Mac, and a part of it on what couldn't possibly be, he had mapped out a flight plan to the delivery point.

The events that followed were intrinsically familiar yet absurdly unfathomable – circling above the empty ocean, the sharp banking of the aircraft, and the noticeable shift as the metal container departed the cargo hold. It all screamed of déjà vu.

Following the unorthodox delivery, Harm was mentally suffering and physically exhausted. However, between the aircraft's autopilot and his ingrained reflexes, all the right maneuvers were performed to return the Gulfstream to London's Heathrow Airport. But the relief of being safely on familiar ground was short lived.

After he taxied the aircraft to the privately rented hangar and shut the jet down, the woman fired another dart. While ineffectively pawing at the small shaft penetrating his thigh, the mixture of stale cigarette smoke and spearmint swirled about him, each smell chasing the other, creating a vortex that pulled him down.

The deeper he descended, the faster he spiraled until. Like a centrifuge, his present circumstances separated from his past. And it was the latter onto which his mind again grasped. And like before, he dreamt the dream he could never recall, and he re-lived the events which couldn't be real.

(events from two years earlier)

He found it odd that sound should be the first sensation that registered. The wheeze of his labored breathing, the soft scuffling of feet, an incessant hum, and a steady ripple all competed for his attention.

His right cheek lay against a pillow, his face a mere foot from the natural, rocky surface of the wall. Shifting his gaze upward, the mounted video camera, with its blinking red light, seemed incongruous with the dark, cave-like environment. Adjusting the angle of his eyes again, he could barely make out the elongated body – his elongated body, with its slowly rising and lowering chest.

His nose registered the smell of blood. The insight was confusing because outwardly he appeared unharmed. But then he tried to move his head and found it too heavy. He tried to speak, but the saliva running down his chin accompanied his inability to form words. And when he tried to simply curl his fingers and could not, the realization he was paralyzed hit home.

His confusion turned to panic as he set about recalling the events that brought him to this place. He considered all the reasons why this had to be a cruel nightmare from which he would awaken shaken but relieved.

It was day one of his stint with PETS, a phantom group rumored to provide air support for snatches and re-insertions. Allen Blaisdell hadn't admitted it, but Harm sensed his handler had been coerced into loaning him out to the tertiary entity. He understood the man's concern. PETS didn't fly the most palatable of missions. But Deputy Director Kershaw hadn't pulled any punches when he explained what flying for the Agency might mean. Never one to shirk responsibility, Harm squared his shoulders and faced head on whatever was thrown his way.

On the grand scale, today he lucked out. The aircraft was top shelf and the flight turned out to be a relative milk run. Nevertheless, it left a sour taste in his mouth. You just didn't drop storage containers from the sky into the Atlantic Ocean without a good reason. Apparently the contents were 'need to know', and someone back at Langley decided he didn't. Uneasy, he nevertheless dumped the cargo and returned to the small airfield at Staszow.

Expecting to refuel and receive his next PETS orders, he was directed to taxi the Gulfstream into Hangar 13. Farthest from the terminal, the structure was abutted by steep, green hillsides to the left and weary, rundown administrative facilities on the right.

Disembarking while his aircraft was serviced, he accepted the hot soup the mentally challenged janitor had offered. Minutes later when his body withered to the floor, his mind registered the paralysis spreading through his veins while the invasion crippled the muscles of his limbs. And that was the last thing he remembered until he awoke to find himself trapped in his own body.

Knowing he was immovable because of drugs rather than broken vertebrae, did not bring comfort; nor did the woman who suddenly appeared in his limited field of vision. She was white, late thirties, brunette, 5'8", maybe 140 pounds, and she smelled. Her white lab coat, devoid of any nametag, offered no identifying name, rank, or role.

Fully conscious but pinned in place by the paralysis, he could do nothing while the woman's lithe fingers efficiently unbuttoned his shirt. Those same fingers, with their business-like quality, slid the garment off his shoulders and exposed his torso to the cold air. Like an out-of-body experience, he watched as she pulled a stethoscope from the black bag. Unable to flinch, he could only endure the discomfort when its icy bell was placed over his pounding heart and again when positioned lower on his diaphragm, and then along his side.

His mind begged for her to look at him -- to see that his eyes were open, that he was awake, conscious, and feeling everything. To see that he was capable of hearing, if not comprehending, anything she might tell him about what the hell was happening to him. And then she did look; and without hesitating she returned the stethoscope to the leather satchel, withdrew the blood collection paraphernalia, and went about her business.

Pushing up his sleeve, she stopped only when it bunched stubbornly at his bicep. After swabbing the area with alcohol, she screwed the needle into the blood tube holder. Encircling his limp arm with a rubber tourniquet, she tightly tied it off and stared indifferently at his face, waiting for the blood to pool. It wasn't long before she slid the needle deep into the most prominent vein. Slowly drawing out the blood, she filled not one but rather four vials. A cotton ball, secured in place over the puncture site with a child's band aid, finally signaled her excessive siphoning was done.

"Gregor, bring me the tubing and then take these to Harrison."

Waiting for the yet unseen assistant to appear, the woman used both hands to straighten his head on the pillow, frowning with disgust as his drool transferred to her hand. "Gregor, now!"

No longer facing the cave wall, his field of vision increased dramatically.

"Damn it, Gregor. Not a hose. He's special. I want the tubing like we use in the other room. And bring back a nappie and bag of food too."

When the large man returned with the requested items, he asked. "Is he special like me?"

"No. He's 52 and he must not be harmed."

"Okay, Sissy. Gregor not hurt 52 in the hospital."

"And for godsake, change your lab coat before you take these vials to Harrison."

After the dismissal, Harm remained with the woman. His eyes begged for information, for understanding, for any explanation, reasonable or otherwise, that would shed light on his presence in the dark, sinister setting. His silent pleas again went ignored as his watch, ring, and neck chain were callously removed. Every article of clothing was stripped next -- shoes, socks, underwear, nothing was spared.

As his disconnected body lay naked, shivering, and splayed out like a specimen in an anatomy exhibit, his mind balked at the cruel hypocrisy that followed. Each of his personal belongings was carefully handled and sealed protectively in a plastic bag. Then, with the greatest of precision, the woman wrote '52' on the package and disappeared with it behind him.

Left alone, he noticed for the first time the thick mattress upon which he lay. Its stark-white covering was clean and soft, but totally at odds with his unresponsive body. Before he could find any sliver of optimism in the observation, his chin was grasped from behind. Looking up, he saw the woman looming over him with the clear, pliable tubing.

With his neck extended as if on a butcher's block, he mentally fought the invasion as the tube was inserted into his nose. It took three attempts, but eventually the tip was thrust beyond his gag reflex and slid down the back of his throat. He lost track of its progress once it reached his sternum. Only his eyes ceasing to see any additional length passing through his right nostril signaled the tube had reached his stomach, effectively implying a prolonged stay was in his future.

'Sissy' wasted no time reaping the benefits of the effort. Hanging a plastic bag of milky, orange liquid from a nearby pole, gravity took over and the bag immediately began emptying. The substance, without his permission, snaked through the tube and toward his face. Moments later it traveled cool, but tasteless, down his throat.

As the force feeding continued, he could to nothing but wonder who was running the show and for what plausible reason. The possibilities of 'who' ran the gamut from rogue agents to aliens. As to the 'why', he didn't want to think too much about that. He only knew it was all being done with a disturbing lack of compassion -- a clinical approach more conducive to lab rat than human being.

If he thought he had reached the bottom rung of despair, he sank to new lows when he was momentarily rolled onto his hip and efficiently rolled back again. A terrified whimper escaped his throat as the adult-sized diaper was pulled up between his legs and the tabs snugly affixed around his waist.

--------------

Subject 52 was acquired at 1300 hours on Monday, October 1, 2003. Caucasian, male, six feet, four inches, 190 pounds, 40 years of age. An HR4K paralytic was administered two hours ago and will remain the standard unless contraindications develop requiring a modification. Subject is conscious and equipped with naso-esophageal intubation for enteral nutritional support. Subject is --

"Sissy –"

"Damn it, Gregor! What is it? You know better than to interrupt while I'm recording."

"He looks scared."

"They always look scared. Did you get the vials to Harrison?"

"Yes. Gregor helped Sissy. Gregor is strong, cheap labor."

"Yes you are. Now help me again and change his nappie. He's already soiled it. Be sure to clean him too. And don't interrupt again until I'm done."

While her brother attended to the nasty cleanup, the woman replaced the battery in the camera which captured video 24-hours a day. She also re-checked the wireless microphone clipped to her collar. It was her preferred method to audibly record information regarding each subject as she worked on them. Satisfied the electronic devices were functioning properly; she grabbed the tube of conductive paste and resumed her work.

Subject 52 is being equipped with a standard 10-20 array. Each probe is outfitted with 100,000 receivers for a total of 3.8 million access points. These will eventually be centralized once the dominant routes are determined.

Fifteen. He kept track in his head as the woman started the routine over for the fifteenth time. The counting exercise did nothing to curb the anxiety that gripped him. But he stubbornly kept at it.

The woman worked slowly but steadily -- each placement taking exactly sixty seconds. The procedure was always the same, just a different area. First her fingers parted his hair until his scalp was exposed. After the area was cleaned, his skin was pulled tight and the blunt end of a stylus roughed up the spot so the conductive paste would have something to grip. Then a pea-sized dollop of the white goop was transferred from the toothpaste-size tube to his head. When the tube was set aside, he could expect the small, metal encased oval to follow. He counted off twenty seconds. That's how long she held her finger over the wafer as the paste set up. Once released, he could feel the tug of his hairs that were inevitably caught between his scalp and the electrode.

The P8 is in place completing the last of the parietal connections. Zinc oxide coverings will be utilized for the occipital regions.

Sixteen. As he lay shivering uncontrollably, the process was slightly modified. Evidently his head needed to be shifted for better access to the yet unclaimed areas of his skull. The familiar process resumed once he had been repositioned. The new angle provided a different view of the cave.

Assuming he was still at the airport, he suspected the cavern was man-made, excavated out of the hillside and connected with either the hangar or the administrative buildings. Overall, it was sparsely furnished; its low ceiling consistent with the meager, hastily thrown-together appearance of the entire space.

Seventeen. Now accustomed to the dim lighting, his eyes were drawn toward the black, metal door. There was no indication what existed on the other side. No one came or went through it. His gaze shifted to study the far corner. Too dark, he could make out nothing specific, for all he knew it was vacant. Still his eyes remained fixed on the area, drawn by something he couldn't put his finger on.

Between repetition 26 and 27, 'Gregor' took a seat beside the bed and wiped the froth from his chin; the feeding tube lying against his throat had increased the saliva he was incapable of swallowing. Once again, the mentally challenged man was meticulous about his duties, if not a little too conscientious in his attention to detail. Likely the quality of his work was scrutinized by his sister, so he took his responsibilities seriously.

Thirty. Despite Gregor's diligent attention to his needs, he was still startled when the man grasped his hand. The gesture was inconsistent with the sister's exploitive treatment. However, it was evidently acceptable behavior because 'Sissy' didn't protest.

After the thirty-second electrode was affixed to his head, two more were fitted uncomfortably deep in each ear canal. Their presence made his head spin and his stomach nauseous. Despair filled his eyes. But while the woman remained oblivious to his distress and guttural pleas, the brother tightened his grip.

Subject 52 has been fitted with thirty-two cranial and two eustachean cathodes. To provide sufficient localizing information, sphenoidal and nasopharyngeal electrodes are also needed to increase coverage of the temporal and frontal lobes. However, penetration beyond the nasion might be problematic because of the gastric prosthesis. Therefore, sphenoidals will be inserted first.

Up until this point of the ordeal, he hadn't allowed himself to think about his friends and family. He had kept the motivational mechanism tucked away for when he really needed it. About to face more invasive abuse, he ceased counting and turned his attention to what would get him through this next round.

His thoughts invariably turned to her. But she was a two-edged sword. He hadn't called her yet because, according to Beth, when he did, he knew it would be over. But he didn't want it to be over. Hence he had not called. But any chance of being with her in the future, never seemed more impossible. It was a vicious circle, until his indomitable spirit rallied against the pessimism and bolstered his will to survive.

"Gregor help again?"

"Yes. You can shave him."

Apparently manly grooming was among the brother's repertoire of skills. Applying a small amount of shaving cream to each of his cheeks, Gregor carefully used a disposable razor and removed the day's stubble. Sister then took over again, wiping the area with alcohol before reaching for the first syringe.

"Sissy not hurt 52!"

"Sit down, Gregor. It won't hurt that much."

"No! Sissy not hurt 52!"

"Fine!"

After the short but loud debate, a protective cloth was placed over his eyes. Now sightless, he felt the sprayed analgesic applied to each side of his face.

The cloth was left in place while the woman bent in close to deal with the precise placement of the internal electrodes. But he didn't need his vision to know her face was mere inches from his. Despite being unable to swallow, his gag reflex kicked in as the woman's cigarette-tainted breath assaulted his sense of smell. The spearmint Tic Tacs she continuously sucked on did nothing but muddle the air each time she exhaled.

Fifty-percent larger implants are required to handle the increased number of receivers. Thus .75 millimeter needles are being used for insertion procedure.

Oblivious to the affect her close proximity was having on him, the woman began the precision work. The first sphenoidal electrode was inserted via syringe below his right cheekbone, just forward of his ear. Despite the analgesic, he could feel the needle as it was carefully guided in and slowly backed out, leaving behind a wire embedded beneath his burning skin.

Knowing what to expect only accentuated the terror when the ten-minute procedure was repeated on his other cheek.

When the cloth was removed from his eyes, he watched as the two entry sites were capped off with antibiotic ointment. Still suffering from the process, he couldn't help but wonder if Gregor's concern for his wellbeing stemmed from being on the receiving end of the procedure. The empathetic thought was interrupted when bandages were placed over the two painful areas. Purportedly to keep the implants in place, they seemed absurdly superfluous given that the paralytic still held him inescapably in its grasp.

"52 cold, Sissy. I give 52 blanket, okay?"

"No. His body temperature must remain low."

"But—"

"Cynthia said no! I shouldn't even be letting you hold his hand."

As was often the case when her brother ruined her concentration and a cigarette was out of the question, Cynthia 'Sissy' McPherson regained her composure by submerging herself in the minutiae of her work.

A nasopharyngeal electrode, last utilized on Subject 39, has been disinfected by soaking for 15 minutes in sodium hypochloride. Subsequent sterilization at 275 degrees Fahrenheit for ten minutes is complete. A dose of xylocaine will be administered. After which insertion will be via Subject 52's left nostril utilizing an endonasal scope. Pending perforation of the sphenoid sinus, the electrode will be positioned against the dural membrane, one centimeter lateral to the midline. Suction pressure will be applied to maintain electrode-mucosa contact sufficient to assess the derivation of P8 wave activity needed to gauge affect on column nuclei and nucleus cuneatus.

Despite his lowered core temperature, beads of perspiration formed on his forehead. A sensor that had been placed on his finger triggered a shrill alarm when his heart rate surpassed 170 beats per minute. The alert was silenced with a casually flicked finger. Then the small aerosol can was put back in service. Its nozzle released a measured amount of its pressurized contents into his left nostril, numbing his nasal passageway. He sent up a silent prayer hoping it did a better job in his nose than it had on his cheeks.

"Gregor, if you insist on sitting there, make yourself useful. Lift 52's neck until his head bends back."

"Okay, Sissy. Gregor help. Gregor is strong, cheap labor."

Three hours after he had awoke, his vision finally wavered. He saw stars and felt his eyes start to roll to the back of his head. But evidently leaving the party on his terms wasn't permitted. The broken ammonia capsule waved beneath his nose made that clear.

Again alert, he felt the feeding tube pull uncomfortably tight in his neck as his head shifted to the extreme position.

But the position also gave him his first view of the rear of the cave and, more importantly, the mass of wires emanating from his head. Four feet long, they eventually separated, each connecting to separate ports on an electronic grid. Though different from ones he was familiar with, he recognized the setup for what it was – an electroencephalogram or EEG machine that would map the electrical impulses given off by his brain.

Breathing through his mouth, he studied the machine while the high-tech, fiber-optic nasal-endoscope was inserted into his only available nostril. At the fifteen minute mark of the instrument's penetrating, but relatively painless exploration, blood started running from his nose and down his throat. He listened worriedly, anxious to know if this was an expected development.

Subject 52's sphenoid sinus has just been perforated. Unrelated epistaxis is occurring but should not impact delivery of the nasopharyngeal wire to the dural lining.

Whether it was the stress, pain, blood loss, or unnatural position of his head, his vision wavered again. And again the ammonia capsule revived him. Thus he was awake when the fine, flexible silver wire with its tiny, three millimeter, gold tip was threaded into his nose, along the same path as the endoscope and through the punctured hole. When it could go no farther, he knew the final electrode rested against the membrane of his brain.

"Okay, Gregor, I'm done. You can let 52's head return to normal."

As the command was performed, Harm's tear-filled eyes fell upon a critical detail he had missed earlier. The EEG console was equipped with a two-way switch!

As his nose was packed with cotton, he made his voice box work. But when the wad of gauze stifled his raw scream, he was certain no one was present who could or would prevent the unsolicited modification of Harmon Rabb Junior.


	5. Chapter 5

Present

"Colonel MacKenzie, I wasn't aware you knew Mr. Webb."

"It's no longer 'Colonel' or 'MacKenzie'. I resigned my commission when I married Captain Rabb. And yes, Mr. Webb and I are acquainted. But enough pleasantries. I want to know what's happened to my husband. And I want to know now!"

Between Mac's rising voice and her stubborn stance, it didn't take the former Admiral long to realize that keeping Sarah Rabb out of the loop wasn't an option. Looking towards Webb, Spencer rubbed his temples in an effort to quiet his thoughts. "I'll tell you what I can."

Using the chair to again block the only exit of the room, Mac warned, "You'll tell me everything you know! Including why Harm thinks you're dead."

Webb shrugged his shoulders, threw up his hands, and plopped down on the bed, "Please, by all means, enlighten me too."

"I presume you've heard of Bluebird, Artichoke, and MK Ultra?" Spencer asked.

While Webb didn't flinch, Mac sat up straight, thoughts of the 'Manchurian Candidate' infiltrating her head. The 1962 movie had suggested a person could be instilled with multiple personalities. Certain personalities, unknown to the others, were then used for covert intelligence operations. After the film's debut, a segment of the general populace came to believe the CIA was involved in such mind control research for real. And they were right.

Spencer had just rattled off three such programs, all funded by the CIA, and all from the same era. Their themes included behavior modification, drug therapy to aid interrogations, as well as those to create amnesia. Then there was the psychic spy program the Agency had dabbled in. When the CIA dumped the program for lack of results, Navy Intelligence picked it up. They tagged it 'Stargazer' and turned the program over to Admiral Harrison Spencer to continue theoretical research on the concept.

"Has the Agency renewed their interest in Stargazer?" Mac asked, frustrated with the man's plodding pace.

"Let's just say it's not out of the realm of possibility. But for the time being they are more interested in my other area of expertise. If you recall, I have a doctorate in Chemical Engineering, specifically the pharmaceutical area of the field."

"I don't understand the significance," Mac said.

"The Company assigned me to Staszow."

"And your path crossed with Harm?" Mac asked.

"Yes. But at first I didn't know it."

---------------------

Two Years Earlier

"I just passed Gregor with 48. Are you sure he's ready?" Harrison Spencer asked.

"Gregor knows the routine," Cynthia answered.

"I meant 48. He looked like he didn't have anything going on upstairs. What's his replacement memory?"

"Look, I can't give them all a full framework. Sometimes there just isn't enough to work with."

"So what's 48's story going to be?"

"He'll be returned to the market area, dazed and disoriented."

Spencer looked distastefully around the room. "I don't know how you can work in here," he said, pulling his lab coat tighter before rubbing his hands together for warmth.

"No choice. You know that."

What he knew was the procedure worked better when the men's body temperatures were below normal. The cold muddled their thought process, slowing brain function to trackable levels. Hence the reason why the air-conditioning was cranked up and the room was filled with four naked men all shivering in their beds. Like an efficient assembly line, they were perfectly aligned, their heads turned toward the wall, wires coming from their heads automating the work. Only the uncoordinated timing of their audible protests marred the otherwise symmetrical setting.

"How's it coming?"

"Fine," Cynthia answered, working at the head of the bed.

Seeing the man slobbering like an infant, Spencer shook his head in sad resignation. The stench from his diaper indicated Gregor was needed. Unable to offer him any encouragement or help, he was the first to break eye contact. He would never get use to the uncivilized treatment and longed to resume work on his own project soon. The Agency assured him they were interested in revisiting the Stargazer concept. But in the meantime, he'd have to put in time elsewhere and for now that meant Staszow. But there was a bright side to the dismal environment -- Cynthia McPherson's MemorySweep process had some parallels with his own work.

"Do you have 52's medications ready?" Cynthia asked impatiently, hating the time being wasted on the imposter. Attaching the electrodes was doubly boring considering this subject was nothing more than a ruse to have Spencer do the work up on the real 52's blood.

Spencer grunted disgustedly. Medications – ordinarily the term suggested a helpful, constructive purpose, a positive approach between practitioner and patient. But in this setting, in her hands, nothing was farther from the truth.

"Well are you going to tell me?" she prompted.

"What?"

"Is there anything abnormal I need to worry about?" she clarified, wondering where the older man's mind sometimes went.

"He took care of himself before he arrived here. Glucose, cholesterol, electrolytes are excellent. However, he is a little anemic."

"I don't care that he needs a little more iron in his diet. Do you have anything relevant for me?"

"Yeah, he's going to be tough to break."

Cynthia's head shot up. "Why? What did you find?"

"I've never seen enzyme levels like his. His GGT and SGPT are out of this world."

"So he's good at building walls. What did you do to compensate?"

"I tweaked the amphetamine mixture and upped the EA-1729."

"Anything else I should know?"

"Yeah, you might want to put him on the other nutri-aid. This one's going to keep coming right out of his system."

"Fine. From here on out he'll get the pink stuff instead. My satchel's on the table. Put the ampoules there. And if you see Gregor, tell him it's time for bed. I swear he never sleeps."

'Like his sister' Spencer thought but kept the retort to himself. Instead he left the room and headed to his quarters to contemplate his professional ethics.

-----------------

Alone in the dark, his joints aching from the cold, the fingernails of his right hand scratched the bed sheet. The meager movement kept him sane, a fine thread connecting him with his detached body. But the effort it took to achieve the paltry victory instilled little hope of winning the war against the paralytic drug and further victimization.

Sometime earlier (he had lost track of time), he had ceased screaming when his most efficient method of breathing had been blocked. Once the wad of gauze was removed from his mouth, his head had been left facing the cave wall, as if in some absurd form of punishment. If he had been able to raise his arm, he would have been able to reach out and touch every familiar crack and undulation on its imperfect surface.

With the removal of the gauze, the prolific flow of saliva resumed. Running down his chin, it was eventually absorbed by the cloth placed on his bare shoulder. The material's drenched state indicated Gregor would be by soon with a fresh replacement. Not liking that particular picture in his head, he let his mind drift amidst the virtual fog that had enveloped him.

The hazy stupor made it difficult to dwell on the specifics of his current situation. But evidently past events were well within his grasp and, despite not wanting to, he found himself revisiting those that had indirectly led him here.

Webb, Mac, his resignation, Paraguay, Chegwidden's scathing words, unemployment, working for the Agency. That pretty well summed it up. Hating his weakness and knowing the thoughts could serve no positive purpose, he fought hard to reinforce the walls that kept them isolated. Sometime during the effort (he had lost track of time), he finally dozed off.

Later (he had lost track of time), the despised ammonia capsule awakened him once more. Lying on his side, he found he had been turned yet again, like a pig on a spit. Evidently bed sores were not part of his future, but staring at the increasingly mind numbing wall was.

Again rolled onto his back (he had lost track of time), his head tried to follow suit, but a finger applied to his face prevented it from doing so. When the same finger checked the state of his diaper, he knew it would come up dry. He hadn't experienced another violent defecation ever since the pink mixture replaced the orange sometime earlier (he had lost track of time). As if on cue, another bag of the Pepto-Bismol colored mixture snaked into his nose, on its way to bolster the energy reserves the relentless cold and shivering sapped.

Subject 52. Day 4. Time 0130. BP is 140 over 90, respiration erratic, heart rate 150, temperature 95.5. Subject is showing some motor capacity. HR4K dosage will be increased by 15 milligrams. Phase 1 mapping has been underway now for 72 hours. Phase 2 mapping will commence in thirty minutes and will run for an additional 72 hours.

"Why … are … you … doing … this?" Surprised his mouth had audibly functioned, he tried to get his mind around the fact he had been in limbo for only four days. It felt like forty.

His question was ignored as his legs were spread apart, creating a work space on the bed. The familiar leather case was unrolled between his knees and ankles, its multiple small pouches visible from the corner of his eye.

He tried another approach. "Why … me?" he asked, his teeth chattering as Cynthia withdrew one of the glass ampoules, inserted the syringe into the vial, and slowly drew up the colorless liquid.

If his body was being rotated to prevent the telltale signs of bedsores, so too were his injection sites changed to hide the needle tracks. He felt her hand squeeze his left foot and hold it firmly while a finger slipped in and pried open the necessary space between two toes. The alcohol swab followed. This time it would be the right side of his second toe that registered the prick.

"Don't …"

The pitiful plea died on his lips as the paralytic entered his vein and returned his body to the state of uncooperative shell. The woman then grabbed the laptop connected to the EEG machine, leaving the portfolio of drugs open between his legs, the detail an unspoken harbinger that more drugs would be dispensed.

Earlier (he had lost track of time), he had caught a glimpse of the waterfall of symbols scrolling down the laptop's screen. The wavy lines were a visual representation of the electrical impulses given off by his brain. Far too fast for anyone to read, they were likely being funneled into special software for interpretation.

Power spectral analyses were completed at 100 seconds of artifact-free EEG epochs. Mean amplitudes in the theta, alpha, and beta frequency bands were computed using Fast Fourier Transfer analysis. Data acquisition thus far indicates electrical potentials in the T1 and F4 regions show promise. All receivers have been recalibrated to those areas. Harassment planned for Phase 2 should identify the Corridor.

God! Promise for what? Harassed how? What corridor? Why was it needed and where did it lead? Now wouldn't be too soon for the cavalry to arrive!

Subject 52's complete Naval and CIA files, including medical records from Bethesda have been assessed. Assets include a full MRI and brain scan performed due to memory loss after Subject ejected from an F14 in May 2001. Also reviewed were psych evals completed following a ramp strike in 1991 which involved the death of Subject's RIO; and one completed in 1996 following Subject's captivity in China.

All pleasant memories he scoffed.

More so than the others, Subject 52's background is rich with useful scenarios. His experiential matrix contains aspects suitable for breeching the McPherson Corridor. The key, as always, will be to use these scenarios to zoom in and find a pathway to circumvent the firewall.

What scenarios?

During Phase 2 mapping, a full course of flunitrazepam will be administered concurrently with sleep deprivation, HMD visualizations, and audio representations. Some tactile stimuli are available if needed.

Rohypnol!

This time the needle was inserted into the left side of his third toe on his right foot. He mentally screamed for help as the syringe's plunger was depressed, releasing the hypnotic into his bloodstream. From his toes to his head, he willed himself to rebuff the creeping relaxation and fight the erosion of the mental barriers he had worked so hard to reinforce.

Fighting the drug's incursion with the techniques taught at SERE school and honed in China, he focused on the HMD. The head mounted display's appearance was not unlike those used with the best virtual gaming software and flight simulators. But that's where the similarities ended.

Dispassionately, his head was lifted from the pillow and the device's band secured firmly around his head, and by necessity, over some of the protruding electrodes. The woman worked quick, connecting the HMD to the laptop's USB port.

A very fine wire was taped to his eye lid and another was wound round his finger, both leading to a disturbing black box next to the laptop. Then the head mounted display's faceplate was positioned snug over his eyes, casting him into blackness. With the additional wires and hardware, he felt more like a developing cyborg and less like a man. His mind wandered as the drugs encroached upon mind and body.

The whole thing was right up Bud Robert's alley. Under far different circumstances they would be drinking it in together with unrestrained enthusiasm. Circumstances like the night they were tired and punch drunk, working late to satisfy another of Admiral Chegwidden's budget report requests. Their creative financing ideas had morphed to non-regulation uses of Bud's artificial leg, which in turn led to discussions about Star Trek, which resulted in a Google search on what their names would decode to as cyborgs or man-machine entities.

He remembered how hard they laughed when they found such a site at 'cyborg. How they nearly wet their pants when Bud typed in 'Harmon' and the result came back H.A.R.M.O.N. -- Handcrafted Artificial Repair and Masterful Observation Neohuman. How amongst their laughter, he could barely get the words out after keying in Bud's name and came up with B.U.D. – Biomechanical Upgraded Device.

He remembered how their boisterous escapade drove Sturgis from the building while their roars of mirth brought tears to their eyes and the appearance of an MP to the bullpen. How gasping for air, unable to explain their plight, they could only thrust the printout at the confused man who stared at the block letters proclaiming S.T.U.R.G.I.S. – Synthetic Transforming Unit Responsible for Galactic Infiltration and Sabotage. And how they had simultaneously snatched the paper away before the man could read A.J. – Artificial Juggernaut. After which Bud ran awkwardly to the men's room. They didn't get any more work done that night.

In the midst of recalling the memory, the HMD's dark display flickered to life before his eyes. A series of files began cycling through, files containing images and audio clips which to his stressed being all referenced bleaker happenings in his life. With each successive reminder, he more than ever longed to be transported back to the happier time he had just revisited.

Stressor montage commenced at 0230.

… His father's picture … He sat in the jet on the Hornet, his father by his side … 'Tell Harm, I love him' … a headstone with no inscription … his father's name on a black granite wall … a photo of Jem … a non-descript girl lying face down with bullets in her back … a photo of Mace … a photo of Mace and he sitting wide-eyed with excitement in an F14 … a ball of flames … 'Eject! Eject! Eject!' … a headstone … Mace's headstone … a photo of Diane … a typed coroner's report … Diane's typed coroner's report … a zippered body bag … her bloody crime site photo … her handwriting … a letter to him … a letter from him to her … a picture of Jordan … his Change of Designator request … his orders to the Patrick Henry … a headstone … Jordan's headstone … a photo of Renee … a photo of Annie … a photo of Mac … a photo of Mac and Brumby … another photo of Mac and Brumby … an engagement announcement … a formal invitation … 'Eject! Eject! Eject!' … a photo of Loren Singer … her crime scene photo … a headstone … Singer's headstone … the steel bars at the Anacostia Brig … his inmate processing photo in orange garb … a tiny six by eight cell … Webb's photo … Mac's photo … his resignation papers … the Paraguayan airport terminal … Mac's photo… Webb and Mac together … his CIA badge … His father's picture … He sat in the jet on the Hornet, his father by his side …

The images cycled through again. He blinked rapidly when the HMD blinded him with white light whenever the three, interspersed audio clips played. The images cycled through again. Some of them were obviously acquired from his apartment. The images cycled through again. Others were likely from Mac's apartment or her office. The images cycled through again. Some, like the headstones, were staged. The images cycled through again. Others were evidently acquired from personnel records. The images cycled through again. The scanned DOD documents were no doubt from his files, files now in the woman's possession.

The images cycled through again. He counted them. The images cycled through again. There were 48. The images cycled through again. Each was frozen in the viewer for precisely five seconds. The images cycled through again. Four minutes -- that's how long it took before his father's picture reappeared. The images cycled though again. The slideshow was consistently interrupted by the blaring audio files each time. (Time – he lost track of it.)

The images cycled through again. He forced himself to look at them objectively. The images cycled through again. He forced himself to look at them without remorse. The images cycled through again. He forced himself to look at them without emotion. The images cycled through again. Why did he have to look at them at all!

He closed his eyes. Blackness. Relief. Respite. Calm. Pain! PAIN! Back-arching, scorching pain, screaming down his arm! He forced his eyes open. His hips immediately returned to the mattress and the electrical shock ceased.

The images cycled through again. They were the same ones. The images cycled through again. He cautiously closed his eyes. One-thousand-one; one-thousand-two; one-thousand-three … PAIN! It seared his arm again. His eyes shot open. The physical agony relented.

Three seconds. That was to be the extent of any reprieve. The images cycled through again, and again, and again. His eyes closed for three seconds, opening them just before the current pulsated through his body. The images cycled through again, and again, and again. The need for sleep became too great. The images cycled through again. His eyes became impossibly heavy. The images cycled through again. His body was giving in, despite his mind telling it otherwise. The images cycled through again. His eyes closed.

One-thousand-one; one-thousand-two; one-thousand-three; one-thousand-four! one-thousand-five … one-thousand-fifty-two … one-thousand-ninety …one-thousand…

Oddly, he was revived by a whiff of ammonia, unable to recall how high he had counted. Those were the good times. The images cycled through again. The cool liquid descended down his throat. The images cycled through again. His diaper was changed. The images cycled through again. He was turned onto his side. The images cycled through again. His toes were pried apart. The images cycled through again. His eyes closed. PAIN! Once again his disobedience was repaid with the flame coursing down his arm. The images cycled through again. He never knew which method to expect. The images cycled through again. Another diaper … images… another feeding … images …. another toe … images … turned on his side … images … drool wiped away …

His toes were pried apart. The images cycled through again. His eyes closed. A respite. A lull. Nothing. Ammonia. The images cycled through again. Another diaper… images… another feeding…images….another toe…images… He was turned on his side …images…drool wiped away.

The images cycled through again. And like every other time (time, he had lost track of it), he forced himself to dissect each image for its quality, its size, its readability. He concentrated on identifying objects in the background, articles of clothing, the computer edited color of his prison jumpsuit, furniture, anything but the emotional baggage each image held. The images cycled through again. He smelled her as she approached his bed.

Subject 52. Day 7. Time 0300. BP is 160 over 100, respiration shallow, heart rate 180, temperature 94.5. Phase 2 mapping using the stressor montage has been underway for 74 hours. Little progress in identifying the McPherson Corridor has been made. Augmentation by increased tactile stimuli is necessary.

… a picture of his father (the gold, oak leaF insignia on his collar, its seven petals arranged star-like) …

He felt himself rolled onto his back.

"Gregor, come here."

… he sat in the jet on the hornet, his father by his side (the flag in the baCkground flew unfurled in the wind) …

"Gregor help Sissy. Gregor is strong, cheap labor."

… 'Tell Harm, I love him' (i love you too, dAd) …

He felt another bag of liquid filtering down his scorched throat, keeping him alive for God knew what.

"Remove his nappie."

… his father's name on a black granite wall (joSeph lapcevic's naMe was below his father's) …

"Gregor just changed 52's nappie."

… a photo of Jem (a button missing from her bLack tunic) … a non-descript girl lying face down with bullets in her back (the thiCk jungle) …

"I didn't say change it! I said REMOVE it!"

… a photo of Mace (government-issued rAYban sunglasses) … a photo of Mace and he sitting wide-eyed with excitement in an F14 (a flag in the backgROund lying limp against its mast) … a ball of flames (pirated from a stAR wars movie) … 'Eject! Eject! Eject!' (robotic soundiNg, as if compuTer generated)

He felt Gregor's big hands fumbling to remove the recently changed diaper.

… a headstone (taken at ArlingTOn) …

Despite the lack of need, he felt the area thoroughly cleaned again.

… Mace's headstone (next to peTer seyMore's wHO died at 24) …

The cold air was noticeable on his exposed privates.

… a photo of Diane (reguLAtion Gold earRings) …

"Bring me those two buckets."

… a typed coroner's report (the leTTEr 'o' needs clEAned) … Diane's typed coroner's report (tHE Letter 'e' iS worsE) … a zippered body bag (NcIs steNciled on tHe side) … her bloody crime site photo (the medals wERe out of FOCus) …

"Gregor help Sissy. Gregor will get the buckets."

… her handwriting (thE maUve papEr) … a letter to him (foLdEd in THirds)… a letter from him to her (the yelLOW legal PaD paper) … a picture of Jordan (the NaVy sweatshirt) … his Change of Designator document (dATed April 24, 1999) …

He was so scared.

… his orders to the Patrick Henry (datED MaY 25, 1999) … a headstone (taken at ArlinGTon) …

He was so tired.

… Jordan's headstone (the gRass cliPPings at its BAse) …

He was so cold.

… a photo of Renee (GuccI sunGlasseS) … a photo of Annie (aLternating bLue and gREen stripes) …

He was so alone!

… a photo of Mac (her BEAUTIFUL brown eyes) …

Finally, a spike! The first complete deviation!

"Quickly Gregor! Pour it over him."

COLD! It was so cold! Too cold to concentrate. Too cold to fight.

… a photo of Mac and Brumby (their eNTwined HanDs, THE RING ON HER LEFT HAND!) …

Temperature is 94. Down another half a degree. More breaks are developing!

… another photo of Mac and Brumby (tellTAle signs of THEIR SWOLLEN LIPS) …

Rolling off his nude body, the slurry of ice water shocked his system and soaked the mattress beneath him. He fought with everything he still had to regain control. (yOu lOse cOntrOl in my wOrld, yOu die.)

… an engagement announcement ('aren't yOu gOing tO wish me luck?' her icy glare) …

"Now the other bucket!"

… a formal wedding invitation (silver and bLue, san-serif letTering) …

"Gregor help. Gregor strong, cheap labor."

Oh God! So COLD! He heard it dripping to the floor, trickling toward the unseen drain. Fight it damn it!

… 'Eject! Eject! Eject!' (it's a monotone, no inflection whatsoever) …

"Damn it! It's leveled off again!"

"Gregor help?"

… a photo of Loren Singer (the white backGround) …

He felt the wire removed from his finger.

"Gregor, you have your own work. Go do it."

… her crime scene photo (the yeLLow Tape) …

He felt a hand.

"Okay Sissy. Gregor, strong, cheap labor."

… a headstone ('ASK ME!' … 'Would you KILL for your BROTHER?') …

Don't.

… Singer's headstone ('YES!') …

The pressure.

… the steel bars at the Anacostia Brig ('YOUR COLLEAGUES … COLLEAGUES … COL … ! FRIENDS ! WILL TESTIFY TO ANGRY WORDS WITH SINGER RIGHT UP UNTIL THE TIME OF HER DEATH') …

The heat.

… his inmate processing photo in orange garb (IT SHOULDN'T BE ORANGE! IT WAS BLUE! ORANGE IS FOR THE CONVICTED! INNOCENT UNTIL PROVEN GUILTY!) …

The smell.

… a tiny, six by eight cell (WHERE IS EVERYONE!) …

The hands.

… Mac's photo (DON'T GO!) …

The pressure.

… Webb's photo (IF HE GOT HER KILLED!) …

Can't stop.

His resignation papers (WHAT ARE YOU WILLING TO RISK TO KEEP HER?) … the Paraguayan airport terminal (HARM, ARE YOU INSANE! THIS JOB IS YOUR LIFE. IT'S ALL YOU'VE GOT.) …

The wetness.

… Mac's photo (NEVER!) … Webb and Mac together (LIKE EVERY OTHER WOMAN YOU'VE KNOWN, SHE'S RUN FOR HER LIFE.) … his CIA Badge (GO WRESTLE ALLIGATORS)

A cell phone rang.

"Damn it, not now!"

It rang again.

"What is it! … Now? … For the love of-- … Fine! I'll be there."

"Sissy mad?"

"We have to go."

The images cycled through again.

"But Gregor not done working at hospital."

"Leave him!"

He felt the wire reattached.

"Sissy, where are we going?"

The images continued cycling.

"You're going to your room."

He shut his eyes, but only for two seconds.

"For how long?"

"As long as it takes! And for Gods sake, change your lab coat. You look like a meat butcher gone amuck."

Despite the McPhersons' departure, his crumbling walls continued disintegrating while the images continued cycling.


	6. Chapter 6

Present

Nervously pacing in the bedroom of the small flat, Mac vehemently tapped the picture Inspector Bergman had given her. "This woman, this is Cynthia McPherson?"

Retired Admiral Harrison Spencer shook his head affirmatively. "Yes."

"She doesn't fit the image of a demonic figure," Webb said dryly.

"She's not evil and doesn't destroy minds! What she does, well, let's just say it's required," Spencer replied, his tone somewhere between defensive and derisive.

"You're wrong!" Mac argued, looking at McPherson's picture again.

In her hands was a woman who, according to Spencer, had been nurtured and trained in a caring, medical profession. What personality trait was required to turn such an individual into someone who could perform acts of mental barbarism and why was Harm involved with her.

"Her process is valid. Similar techniques are currently undergoing clinical trials for the treatment of PTSD in war veterans and trauma survivors," Spencer replied rationally. "It might even lead to a cure for Alzheimer's."

Mac turned on her heel and got in the man's face. "It's nuerohacking!"

"Sarah, calm down. You wanted him to explain, so let him," Webb said, pulling Mac to a seat on the bed before nodding to Spencer to continue.

"Colonel Mackenzie's technically correct, though I dislike the term as much as referring to the brain as wetware."

Mac glared at the man. "Get over it."

"Yes, well … as I was saying, great strides have been made in determining the brain's storage methods. Hence Cynthia's research focused on 'Memory Editors' – both those that enhance and those that wipe."

"It gives a whole new meaning to – I've changed my mind," Webb murmured under his breath.

Spencer ignored the barbs and growing animosity. "Without getting technical, the way the brain goes about things often leaves gaping holes for someone to access. Memory retrieval is one such hole. But in order to get to the hole, you need to breech a firewall of sorts or as Cynthia calls it – the McPherson Corridor."

Seeing he had an attentive audience, he continued. "She usually achieves the best results with individuals possessing anxieties that are repressed within the unconscious. Themes such as separation, intrusion, abandonment, isolation, betrayal, castration fears, life and death concerns are easier to identify and then crack. She probes until she finds the tiniest fissure in a person's psyche and then pries a wedge into it. Using increasing pressure, she widens the gap. Ultimately the victim surrenders and she breaks through the Corridor.

"Don't you mean she breaks their will to resist!" Mac shouted getting to her feet.

Webb intercepted her before she launched herself at the man who had consorted in such behavior. "Sarah, stop it! He's here to help. It won't do any good if you lay him out flat on his back!"

---------------------

(dreaming events from two years earlier)

Exhausted, cold, and in pain, 52 re-lived the memories and emotions each image evoked. 52 had held off as long as possible, concentrating on emotionless minutiae instead, but 52 could do so no longer.

The images cycled through again. PAIN. 52's walls cracked. The images cycled through again. 52's walls toppled. The images cycled through again. 52's walls were obliterated.

52 was now splayed open and vulnerable, each retrieval of a memory, and its subsequent re-storage, tracked a little more of the neural network involving the most tumultuous events of 52's life.

Hour after hour, the EEG machine received the electrical impulses, mapping 52's brain in fractions of milliseconds. One by one the 3.5 million receivers focused on the electrical circuitry involving his memory.

… 'Tell Harm I --

The audio file abruptly stopped at 0215 hours on day 9 of 52's captivity. After 104 hours of Phase 2 harassment, the EEG machine powered down on its own.

Silence, except for 52's whimpering. This too stopped when the HMD went black. 52 felt the tears make their way down 52's face, past 52's lips, past 52's chin, finally pooling with the drool on 52's neck. No one came to service 52.

Without another living soul present, 52 slept, unaware the machine had developed the necessary algorithm and schematic that even the most inept hacker could follow to breach his mental firewall. 52 slept, unaware he had been left alone for the past 24 hours and that it would be another 48 before he saw another living being.

-----------------

(dream continues)

"Get out, Harrison! Get out now!" Cynthia warned menacingly.

"My God. Is he who they've been looking for the past three days?" Spencer asked, removing his hands away from Harm's face.

"No. What they were looking for is even beyond your comprehension. Now if you hope to ever continue your own research, you'll walk out of here without a word!"

"But he's Commander Harmon Rabb of the U.S. Navy."

"Not anymore. You're living proof the Company is filled with misfits and unwanted transplants."

"But—"

"He's Subject 52 and I suggest you leave it at that!"

With a last glance at his former defense counsel, Harrison Spencer turned away. He momentarily paused as the strangled plea for help reached his ears. Hanging his head, he walked out the door, hearing it lock behind him.

Day 13. EEG analysis and montage amplification have clearly identified the location of Subject 52's McPherson Corridor. Topical antibiotic ointment should leave no trace of subject's minor burns. An explanation for his weight loss, Spencer's appearance, and things beyond my control will be dealt with during the memory wipe. Naso-esophagel intubation has been reinserted as have the two eustachean, two sphenoidal and nasopharyngeal cathodes. All remaining cranial transmitters have been realigned to the T1 and F4 electrodes.

"Sissy hurt 52?"

"He hurt himself," she answered finishing the application of the ointment.

"No! Sissy hurt 52," Gregor shouted, patting Harm's red cheeks to dry away the tracks of tears and blood left behind after the three thin wires had been reinserted.

"I was out of analgesic. The stuff in the can," she explained when her brother didn't understand.

"Don't hurt 52. Don't hurt 52. Don't hurt 52."

"God! You have your own work to do. Go do it!"

"Gregor help here. Gregor strong, cheap labor."

"Fine. Put a diaper on him while I get his medications ready."

"52 is going away soon."

"Why do say that?" Cynthia asked, confused why her brother was overly protective of this one and not the others. What wasn't a mystery were the drugs Spencer had previously prepared. Drugs that would put her subject's mind into a fog so that he will mistake what is true from what is untrue, what is right for what is wrong, and come to believe what did not happen actually had happened. And because the path to his McPherson Corridor was now known, new dreams could, in a manner of speaking, be cut and pasted over old memories.

"Only two wires left on his head. Two wires means 52 goes away soon. Two wires means 52 no longer remembers Gregor!"

The mapping of his brain had ended a while ago (he had lost track of time). The real horror of the place was discovered afterwards (he had lost track of time). For a period (he had lost track of time), stomach cramps and thirst plagued him. Then Admiral Spencer's brief presence (he had lost track of time) and unsympathetic exit confused him. But it was the mentally challenged man's simple explanation that finally enlightened him.

Cynthia laughed. "Now who is scaring him? And I wish it was 'soon'. Unfortunately, it'll take 15 days. But you're right; this is the final leg of his journey, so say goodbye if you must. But let me work."

Subject 52's Memory Editing sequencing will begin once core temperature reaches 94. Controlled doses of lysergic acid diethylamide, phencyclidine, and a derivative of sodium amatol will be administered while monitoring Subject's GABA, dopamine and serotonin levels.

Gregor stood alongside the bed and once again picked up 52's cold hand. He tightened his grip as his sister poured the cold slurry over 52's torso. By the time the second bucket thoroughly soaked the mattress, tears were streaming down Gregor's face.

Electromagnetic stimulation will be set at .0003 microvolts per millisecond to maintain Alpha waves at 8.3 Hz frequency. Repetitious sequencing will continue until behavior becomes endogenous and new experience set is in place. The algorithmic model forecasts reprogramming will be accomplished in eight days after which counter agents will be administered for seven days to neutralize side affects and deal with withdrawal seizures. Physical therapy to offset diminished stamina is also planned.

"You … won't … get …. away … with … this," Harm ground out, surprised his voice was functioning again. He watched her while trying to get his mind around the fact he was facing 15 more days of 'this'. The previous 13 days had felt like 13 months. He feared 15 more days would feel like 15 years.

His threat was ignored as his legs were spread apart, creating the ominous space on the bed. The leather portfolio was rolled open between his knees and ankles, many of its glass ampoules nearly empty; too many others yet untapped.

His teeth chattered as Cynthia withdrew a fresh bottle, inserted the syringe into it, and slowly drew up the yellow liquid. He felt her hand squeeze his right foot and hold it firmly. The alcohol swab followed. This time it would be the tender instep that registered the pain. Despite the paralytic, his fingers began tingling. His other foot was swabbed.

"I … won't … forget … That's a… promise."

Frustrated by the unexpected inspection, worried by Spencer's meddling, annoyed by her brother's concern, and now angry with her Subject's tenacity, Cynthia drove the needle deep. Only when she elicited a cry, did she push the plunger.

"I'll … REMEMBER!"

Shoving her hovering brother out of the way, Cynthia stormed toward the head of the bed. Grabbing a fistful of hair, she yanked Harm's head back until his eyes could only focus on one thing – the two-way toggle switch on the EEG console. Seeing his eyes register fear, she moved her face an inch from his and whispered, "No you won't."

When his body temperature decreased to 94, she made sure he was looking when she flicked the switch from 'Receive' to 'Transmit'.

-------------------

Present

"I didn't know why he was there. Some things you just don't question," Spencer said, the defensiveness in his voice obvious. "Anyway, by the time I saw him, his McPherson Corridor had been compromised. I assume Cynthia continued with the process after I left."

As the chill in the room became more pronounced, Mac wrapped her arms tightly around herself. She needed to use the restroom, she needed a drink, she needed to throttle Webb and deck Spencer, but more than anything, she needed to find Harm.

"What's … What's this 'differential amnesia' process entail?" Mac asked, her hands fussing with the wedding ring on her finger.

"It's almost a reversal of the mapping process that led to his Corridor. Every thought or visual observation causes a certain neurological spike or pattern in the brain's electromagnetic field which can be decoded and recoded into specific thoughts, pictures, and voices," Spencer answered. He shut his eyes and rubbed his temples before continuing.

"If it's a particularly strong willed individual, a form of truth serum is administered to 'loosen the mind' or more accurately release the cortical functions of the brain. Hallucinogenic drugs are also injected -- always lysergic acid diethylamide and phencyclidine. Sometimes mescaline is added."

"LSD and PCB!" Mac cried, sinking onto the chair.

"Outward manifestations include dizziness, visual distortions, and restlessness. Then the bowels release. Inwardly, patients are gripped with confusion, panic, psychosis, and anxiety."

"Oh, God."

Webb went to Mac's side and placed a supportive hand on her shoulder. "Sarah, you don't need to listen to this."

She pushed him away. "Yes I do!"

Spencer ignored Webb's angry stare and took a deep breath.

"The cold slows the mental processes to manageable levels while the drugs interfere with his synapses – the junctions between his neurons."

Mac stared at him, incomprehension blanketing her face. Spencer continued. "Just as painkillers work by blocking the pain receptors on postsynaptic neurons, certain receptors are vital to maintaining a memory. To wipe a memory, Cynthia intervenes before the receptor can re-file the memory. To create a new memory, she intervenes again by managing the spikes and patterns passing from one neuron to the next."

Mac had little spit left. She used her tongue to wet her dry lips. "Intervenes how?"

Spencer swallowed a gulp of cold coffee, not wanting to continue.

"HOW?" Mac demanded.

"Direct brain stimulation," he whispered.

Spencer saw the immediate horror on her face. He knew she was envisioning a mind turned to mush; a zombie-like vegetable left to languish on the vine; a convulsive body foaming at the mouth. Before she could react verbally, he went on.

"It's not like the electro-convulsive therapy Dr. Cameron used back in the 50's. That was the equivalent of sending in an elephant to stomp out an ant. He used 150 volts of electrical current for four seconds. Here we're talking microvolts – maybe three-ten thousandths of a volt every thousandth of a second."

Mac's vision swam as the blood drained from her face. She leaned forward and forced her head between her legs. As stars went off in her head, she managed to ask, "Every thousandth of a second for how long?"

Spencer didn't know what to do to alleviate the time bomb sitting before him. Talking seemed to work so far. So he kept at it while continuing to mentally sift through the mass of fluctuations bombarding his head.

"Sometimes a day, sometimes a week or more. It depends on what needs wiped and what's being implanted."

Mac sat back up. "Is it painful?"

"Some subjects have described it like a section of a picture puzzle in their head being taken apart, piece by piece. Each interlocking jigsaw facet examined, turned, flipped over, sorted, and repainted; then made to fit back together again where they don't belong."

Hearing her emotional reaction, he stopped short of sharing how others described the sensation. Or how the entire body vibrates like an electrical arc trapped between two circuits.

"I know it sounds excessive. But we're talking about minute amounts of nerve damage. At worse, subjects might mentally come up 'blank' when recalling a memory because the replacement didn't take."

"You sonofabitch! He's not a subject! HE'S MY HUSBAND!"

------------------

Three Days Earlier

"Sonofabitch!"

"Robert, don't!" Setting her equipment down, Cynthia didn't make it to the top of the landing before the man drove his fist into Harm's jaw for the second time. "Stop it. I need access to his nose!"

"Fine!"

Still groggy from the sedative, Harm grunted as his unseen assailant sucker punched him in the stomach instead. Doubled over, he was unprepared when he was shoved down the wooden steps, toppling head over heels. When he remained unmoving amidst stacks of old papers and cardboard boxes, Cynthia McPherson turned angrily for an explanation.

"He pissed on me!" the man said, wiping the back of his neck with a rag before stomping down the basement steps. He yelled over his shoulder, "Besides, if he's not banged up, no one's going to believe he's been in a car accident."

"Just stay away from his face!"

Sometime later, Harm woke disoriented and in pain. The tripod-mounted video camera pointed his way raised the hairs on the back of his neck. The foul odor of the ashtray near his nose turned his stomach. And the blood trickling from his nostril, over his swollen lip, and into his mouth set off alarm bells in his head. All viable reasons he considered returning to the nightmare he could no longer recall.

It took his scrambled mind a full minute to grasp the fire in his face was not from the beating he'd received but from the nightmarish wires protruding from his nose and cheeks. His ears, temple, and forehead weren't vacant either. All sported electrodes leading to an intimidating EEG machine off to his right.

The incomprehensible, draconian setting was rapidly eroding his belief that the image he'd been shown earlier was a cruelly concocted, photo-editing job to play with his mind. All remaining doubts were obliterated when he heard the woman's heartless tone. Her words ignited a fervent desire to be anywhere but here.

Friday, September 22, 2005; 2330 hours. Subject 52 has been fitted with a nasopharyngeal cathode, T1 and F4 cranial electrodes, as well as pairs of eustachean and sphenoidal electrodes. Because location of Subject's McPherson Corridor is already known, the Corridor can be accessed with minimum effort. Also, the new experiential set is not complex. Models are forecasting memory wipe and re-programming by Monday. Unfortunately, supply of HR4K paralytic has been depleted necessitating physical restraints.

"What is it you're trying to hide?" Harm asked, his voice belying the inner turmoil threatening to consume him.

The woman refused to make eye contact as she went methodically about her work.

"If you have the means to induce amnesia, what's the harm in telling me?"

His heart rate doubled when, instead of answering, she inserted all the wires emanating from his head into separate ports on the EEG machine. A waterfall of symbols immediately began scrolling down the laptop's screen, graphically illustrating every nuance of his thoughts.

When she continued to remain mute, his eyes scanned down his elongated body. He supposed he should be thankful his immobility was due to ropes, similar to those hanging from the large hooks in the ceiling, and not from broken vertebrae or chemical intervention. But he was finding it difficult to muster much gratitude.

The hard surface on which he lay was inconsistent with the thick padding that kept the restraints from biting into his skin. Evidently rope burns and ligature marks were not in his future. But, given the pain emanating from his chest, pummeling of his body was fair game.

He instinctively tried to pull away when the woman reached for his throat. Tethered too efficiently, he could do nothing as the woman's lithe fingers undid his tie. Moving the ends out of the way, he noted how she carefully secured his tie clip to his shirt pocket. He didn't doubt for a second the conscientious gesture was in her best interest rather than his.

He watched with a sense of deja vu as those same fingers efficiently unbuttoned his shirt. Then, with business-like proficiency, she freed his shirttails from his pants before sliding the shirt off his shoulders. Pushing up his t-shirt, she exposed his battered torso to the damp, cold air.

After all her efforts, she gave the raw scrapes and contusions on his chest and ribcage little more than a cursory glance. Instead, she was suddenly more intent on adjusting the thermostat on the far wall.

"At least tell me where I am," he tried again, noticing his suit coat draped neatly over a chair.

"Agent Rabb, you should have paid attention on the ride here," the man replied instead as he carried two filled buckets into the small, walk-in meat locker. "Then again, I'll cut you some slack. You were, after all, incapacitated by drugs."

Harm looked up and for the first time saw the man who had likely joined them at Staszow. He was probably the same man responsible for his recent beating. And there was no doubt he was the man who was second in command at the CIA. "Assistant Deputy Director Robert Kroger," Harm grimly acknowledged.

"I'm impressed. Considering we never met first hand, given your short tenure with the Company," the man smirked then turned to the woman. "Cynthia, do you need more?"

Concentrating on her laptop, she simply nodded yes.

Put out by the manual labor, Kroger turned back to Harm. "I didn't appreciate your little accident, Rabb. If I had my way, you'd be dead right now," Kroger sneered.

Harm noted the man's wet collar and then his own wet groin. "There are worse things," he said, smirking with satisfaction.

Kroger flexed his scraped knuckles and moved closer to where Harm lay. Grinning threateningly, he pointed to the small, black battery and coil of wire next to the EEG machine. "You got that right."

"Robert, get the water."

"You're no fun, Cynthia."

Distracted by the ominous equipment, Harm wasn't prepared when the woman started slowly pouring the icy water over his torso. She moved on to systematically drench his arms, legs, and dislodged clothing before using the second bucket to deal with any areas she missed. Even his shoes and socks weren't spared. Suddenly wet to the bone, his body registered the room's dropping temperature and the frosty draft coming through the overhead vent.

His unease grew when Kroger returned with more buckets and several bags of ice. While the woman dispensed the additional liquid, Kroger personally saw to the placement of the ice bags, positioning them beneath his neck, in his arm pits, and between his thighs.

"Robert, you can leave now."

"I still say he's too much trouble at this point."

"You may need him again, considering you killed the others. Besides, I have too much invested in this one."

"Suit yourself. I'm going to bed."

After Kroger left, Cynthia locked the door behind him and picked up the coil of wire. Harm tried to control his fear and think on his feet, or more appropriately his back. The situation was no more fathomable than the 8X10 images Cynthia flashed him on the Gulfstream, nor her absurd claim they had a child.

Noting she'd become more talkative, he tried more conversation. "What about the boy?"

"What about him?"

"Don't I get to see him?"

"We'll see how it goes."

"Is he here?"

"What disturbs you more, his existence, or the circumstances under which we made him?"

"You didn't answer my question. Is he here?"

Cynthia looked at him, or more accurately through him. She smiled and answered, "Yes, he's here. Now answer my question."

"The circumstances under which he was conceived."

"The circumstances under which 'we made' him," she corrected. "But I sense you have doubts. No matter. He served his purpose."

"You talk of him like an object. Do you even love him?"

Slamming the coil down, Cynthia moved to his sodden feet. "I won't discuss him anymore!"

Having been able to take her mind off the potential torture device, Harm didn't want to push his luck, so he changed the subject.

"How long have you worked for the Company?"

"You don't get to ask that."

"What do I get to ask?"

"You can ask for a picture of your wife."

Harm paused and considered the bizarre conversation. It would be at least two more days before Mac returned home and confirmed his disappearance. Then again, he was already told he'd be returned home by Monday night. The question was, in what kind of condition? Then there was the likelihood Webb was involved. Was he or someone else already looking for him? Would they get here before the woman initiated his 'reprogramming'?

"Well? Are you interested?" she asked.

The cold now thoroughly chilling his body, his teeth chattered when he answered, "Yes, I'd like to see a picture of my wife."

Rifling through her black bag, Cynthia McPherson smirked as she withdrew the photo. Holding it between her fingers, she positioned it a foot from Harm's face and carefully studied his reaction.

Within the first second, his mind registered three things: The red dress Mac wore was from the Embassy party 30 hours ago. Clayton Webb's hungry lips were devouring her neck. The demure smile on her face suggested she was enjoying his advances.

Within the second second, three things occurred: The odds that anyone might find him plummeted. His level of despise for Clayton Webb skyrocketed. The deep-seated trust he had in Mac flickered.

Satisfied the picture's mental baggage would be sufficient to re-open the Corridor, Cynthia carefully propped the picture against the leather satchel between Harm's splayed legs, keeping it within his field of vision. She then slowly untied the wet laces of his left shoe. Sliding it off his foot, she hooked a finger in his sock, clearly intending to remove it as well.

Having a little play in the restraints on his legs, Harm yanked his foot out of her grasp, driven by a need he couldn't explain. When the woman's head jerked up to confront him, he remembered seeing the same expression on her face hours ago. Grasping at straws, he blurted out, "Is Kroger your strong, cheap labor now?"

There it was again -- anger, worry, and fear; all rolled into one.

"What do you know of strong, cheap labor?"

How did he answer that?

"WHAT DO YOU KNOW OF STRONG, CHEAP LABOR?" she yelled, reclaiming his foot and pulling off his wet sock.

"I … I don't remember," he answered honestly. The despair in his answer brought back a myriad of feelings. The same feelings he experienced when he made the same declaration a month ago in the Emergency Room and again on the plane ride home from the States."

When she continued staring uncertainly, he drew upon his Hostage 101 training that drove home the importance of making a personal connection with your captor. "Please, the ice between my legs is uncomfortable."

In a gesture completely unexpected, she withdrew the bag and placed it on his chest instead.

"Thank you," he said, chalking up the small victory.

Moments later, any ground he gained in controlling the situation was squelched when she selected an ampoule and syringe.

Subject 52 requires a higher than normal dosage of Flunitrazepam.

"Rohypnol?"

A smile flickered across the woman's face as she slowly drew up the colorless liquid. Better known as the date-rape drug, it was an effective means to relax subjects and 'loosen' their minds.

Pausing to take a deep drag on her cigarette, she asked again, "What do you know of strong, cheap labor?"

He searched his mind and came up with, "Nothing." When she pried two toes apart, he added. "I'm telling you the truth! I don't remember. Isn't that the whole idea?"

His question was answered by a ring of blue smoke blown his way and a hot needle prick in his toe. Unable to fight back, he watched her silently enjoy another cigarette as the drug made its languorous way through his system. The need to sleep and the creeping cold sapped his reserves. His head lolled to the side, a trickle of spit forming at the corner of his mouth.

Moments later, his head was straightened. The woman moved in closer and exhaled inches from his face. Looking him in the eyes, she said, "Tell me. What do you know of strong, cheap labor?"

He gagged on the smell of her breath. The cigarette and spearmint mixture pervaded the clot of blood in his nostril and overpowered the coppery taste in his mouth. Ready to vomit, he answered, "Gregor … I saw Gregor and the phrase popped into my head."

It sounded ludicrous to his ears, but somehow he knew it was the truth. The woman backed off and paced nervously. She finally paused and toggled on the recording device; then employed her cold, analytic tone. Subject 52 is experiencing fragmented associations. She then resumed pacing. Five minutes later, she stopped in front of him, grabbed his shoulders, and shook him. "What else do you remember!"

Harm looked at his bare foot. He looked at the 'transmit' switch on the EEG machine. He looked at the black battery. He looked at the leather case filled with a dozen ampoules. The irony of the situation nearly made him laugh. Somewhere, somehow, sometime, he suspected they had all been used to make him forget that which he was now seemingly accused of remembering.

Lost in the incongruity, he was too slow conjuring up an adequate answer before her clenched fist came down hard on his chest, the ring on her little finger opening a cut near his clavicle.

"UGH!"

"What else do you remember!"

When she made a move to strike again, he went with the obvious. "… Cold! … being … cold …"

"Don't guess!"

Fatigued by hours without decent sleep, weakened by lack of food, groggy from the new sedative compromising his system, stressed from the cold, and needing relief from the pain, Harm shut his eyes.

(((one-thousand-one; one-thousand-two; one-thousand-three))) His eyes shot open.

"What else do you remember?" She asked more calmly.

"Three seconds."

"What about three seconds?"

He glanced at the battery. "Pain. Pain came after three seconds."

"What else do you remember?"

Suspecting the ad hoc interrogation was the least of the potential evils that surrounded him, he tried to recall anything of substance that would placate the agitated woman.

The ice, wet clothes, and air-conditioning lowered his core temperature as the relentless questioning continued. The monotony was occasionally punctuated by assaults from an endless supply of ammonia capsules and more blows to his chest. By the time she lit up her seventh cigarette, he had managed only a handful of fragments that meant little more to him than infantile dependency – excessive drooling, diaper changes, and force feeding.

"What else do you remember?"

Again he replayed the same litany. "I remember … Gregor." The truth was he remembered nothing specific about the man. "…I … remember … the phrase strong … cheap labor." The truth was he had no idea why he associated it with the woman's brother. "… I … remember drooling … and the stench of … a diaper … and … and … "

The ammonia revived him. "… one-thousand-one … one-thousand-two … one-thousand-three … then pain … "

"What else do you remember?"

"… and … being … fed."

More ammonia. More ice. More water. More smoke. "What else do you remember?"

When he was close to succumbing to unconsciousness, a place where the irritating ammonia and smoke couldn't find him, another fragment came from somewhere unbidden, and he answered, "… the cave …"

The new revelation surprised them both. It also ignited a change in the woman's demeanor and rekindled a foreboding in Harm's head.

Through the narrow slits of his heavy eyelids, he watched as the woman's mannerisms exuded a dangerous volatility. He sucked in a deep breath as she prematurely ground out the cigarette. He winced as she launched herself at him. He cringed as she frantically reached between his legs. He mentally screamed when she withdrew another syringe. And he prayed when she selected the ampoule marked 'phencyclidine'.

Stale cigarette smoke and spearmint swirled about him, each smell chasing the other, creating a vortex that pulled him down. The deeper he descended, the faster he spiraled until, like a centrifuge, his present circumstances separated from his past. And it was the latter onto which his mind grasped.

If he had stayed awake, he wouldn't have dreamt the dream he could never recall. If he had stayed awake, he wouldn't have re-lived the events which couldn't be real. If he had stayed awake, he wouldn't have remembered Mac and Webb and Paraguay and Never. If he had stayed awake, he wouldn't have missed Cynthia McPherson tighten the rubber tourniquet around her own arm and inject the PCP into her own vein.

Hours later, if he had woken on his own, he would have seen the naked woman cowering in the corner, her arms wrapped around herself as she rocked back and forth. If he had woken on his own, he might have come to understand her failure as a woman. If he had woken on his own, he might have understood her failure as a sister. And if he had woken on his own, he might have figured out what she considered her greatest failure – a flaw in her process.

But he didn't awaken on his own. He woke as the result of the incessant banging on the meat locker door. Once his eyes focused, what stood beside him was as crazed a woman as he had ever seen.

"Cynthia! Damn it, let me in!" Kroger yelled.

She finally acknowledged the noise and released the door's inside deadbolt. Kroger stormed in. Seeing her naked, he looked around the room and asked uncertainly, "Cynthia, what the hell is going on?"

"It's your fault. And it's his fault. And you're both going to pay," she answered. Then Cynthia McPherson wasted no time shooting Assistant Deputy Director Robert Kroger of the CIA between the eyes. Before he hit the ground, she was gone, slamming the door shut behind her.


	7. Chapter 7

Mac pulled back the curtain and stared out at the blighted city that was on a mission to turn around its depressed economy. She supposed on a brighter day, under better circumstances, she might find some redeeming quality about the place. If nothing else, on a brighter day, under better circumstances, even the 24 hour around-the-clock entertainment options the Chamber of Commerce promoted might be appealing.

But right now, in the city of Leeds, nearly 200 miles north of London, she saw rundown buildings, dirty streets, dark alleys, and polluted canals. The view was as unwelcoming as any she could imagine -- and now she was being told somewhere out there in that bleakness was her husband.

As she scanned the horizon, she sucked the broken skin of her knuckles where her fist had finally connected with Harrison Spencer's eye. It was shortly thereafter his presence at the boarding house was explained.

When Webb had contacted him, Harrison Spencer could shed few details on the information the CIA was ultimately after. However, when asked if he knew anything about Harmon Rabb's disappearance, Spencer not only had an overwhelming desire to help but the means to do so as well. Consequently, it was he who had pointed Webb to the city of Leeds. Shortly thereafter, he made travel arrangements to get himself there as well.

"How do you know he's out there?" Mac asked weakly.

"How did you know where he was in the Atlantic?" Spencer answered by way of any explanation that made sense in the short time he feared was left.

Mac turned and stared at the man as he held the ice pack to his face. She fought down the fear. But she was finding it immensely more difficulty to fight down the resentment. How could this man have a link to Harm when her own connection was eluding her? Eluding her at a time when Harm needed her more than ever.

"You're sure he's in Leeds?" Webb asked.

"Yes, the visions are strong."

"Why Leeds?" Mac asked.

Spencer closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. Neither actually did anything to facilitate the remote viewing process, but it gave the appearance he was doing something and eliminated the need to see the skepticism on Webb's face. "I don't know why Leeds. But I'm certain he's out there."

"How do you know?" Webb asked.

"When I came upon him at Stazow, something in his being there didn't sit right with me."

"You think!" Mac's voice dripped with sarcasm, but she held back the urge to throttle the man again.

"I can't go back and undo my actions. But I can make things right now. Anyway, before Cynthia found me with him, I implanted a mental marker of sorts in Captain Rabb. It was a matter of synchronizing my brain waves to the same frequency he was experiencing at the time. It was something I practiced with many of the sub--, er, men there. Once in sync, it was a tangible connection."

When Mac and Webb looked doubtful, he continued. "I have years of biofeedback experience. Though difficult, I can shift my mind from one state to another at will. When I found Captain Rabb, he was cycling very rapid Beta waves consistent with an excessive level of anxiety."

"It took me a while to work myself up to that same level. But once I did, I in essence buried a mental beacon in his neural network. Before I could do more, Cynthia arrived."

"Then why can't you pinpoint him now!" Mac demanded.

"It's so scrambled. His mind. Perhaps if we tried together we could break through."

Mac's eyes widened. "What!"

"Together. If we tried together, we might have better results."

----------------

Earlier

Ignored for hours in the dim, 40-watt lit interior, Harm continued shifting his eyes from one disturbing element to the next. Over and over, they made the macabre circuit. The wide-open eyes of Robert Kroger mocked him; the troublesome picture of Mac and Webb angered him; and his trousers and boxers pulled down around his knees alarmed him. For the thousandth time, he tried to break free from the ropes holding him hostage.

A high-pitched tone drew his attention away from the futile task and redirected it to the EEG machine, another grim ingredient of the cauldron of horrors that was his cell. The previously scrolling symbols had come to a standstill, the audible signal indicating the scanning of his brain was completed. The realization created serious apprehension. For the completion meant the foreboding, man-made presence had found a way into the 'Corridor' -- the passageway so important to the next phase of the woman's manipulative process.

He never felt so cold, so tired, so alone. No, that wasn't quite true. Certainly his time adrift in the Atlantic engendered such extremes. But this particular plight provoked something more, something he couldn't put his finger on. Something he couldn't remember. And not remembering was what this was all about.

Pondering the deep, dark secret he was no longer privy to, he nearly leapt out of his skin when the door creaked open.

Contrasting dramatically with his declining condition, in walked a recently-showered, fully-clothed, and refreshed Cynthia McPherson. Close behind was Gregor McPherson. The heretofore absent man fretfully rushed to his side, stepping over Robert Kroger's body as if he wasn't there.

Sporting a juicy wad of gum in his bulging cheek, the man leaned over Harm and carefully patted his tender ribs. "Someone hurt 52," Gregor frowned, the sweet, confectionary smell of bubblegum accompanying his concern.

Though the man's distress was sincere, it was also puzzling in that he found nothing odd about '52' being clearly held against his will, unnaturally exposed, or sporting wires for something far more sinister. But before the contradiction could be explored, it was suddenly overshadowed by a previously forgotten memory, a memory he was certain had been available to him in his dreams only to be gone upon awakening.

(forgotten memory) It was day one of his stint with PETS, a phantom group rumored to provide air support for snatches and re-insertions. Blaisdell hadn't admitted it, but Harm sensed his handler had been coerced into loaning him out to the tertiary entity. He understood the man's concern. PETS didn't fly the most palatable of missions. But Deputy Director Kershaw hadn't pulled any punches when he explained what flying for the Agency might mean. Never one to shirk responsibility, Harm squared his shoulders and faced head on whatever was thrown his way.

On the grand scale, today he lucked out. The aircraft was top shelf and the flight turned out to be a relative milk run. Nevertheless, it left a sour taste in his mouth. You just didn't drop storage containers from the sky into the Atlantic Ocean without a good reason. Apparently the contents were 'need to know', and someone back at Langley decided he didn't. Uneasy, he nevertheless dumped the cargo and returned to the small airfield at Staszow.

Expecting to refuel and receive his next PETS orders, he was directed to taxi the Gulfstream into Hangar 13 instead. Farthest from the terminal, the structure was abutted by steep, green hillsides to the left and weary, rundown administrative facilities on the right.

Disembarking, he found a mechanic waiting for him at the bottom of the jet's steps. "What's the problem?" Harm asked, his voice echoing in the nearly empty chamber.

"The boss called. He wants me to replace the aileron on the port side."

"That could take a while," Harm said.

"Need to be somewhere soon?" the heavily bearded, thickly bespectacled man asked.

"I don't have a clue," Harm answered.

"Well there's soup and sandwiches in the office. Help yourself. Just look out for Gregor."

"Gregor?"

The mechanic kicked over an open bag of 'kitty litter'. The clay granules, commonly used to clean up liquid spills, scattered across the spotless floor.

"McPherson!"

Hearing the pattering feet on rapid approach, Harm turned around and immediately spotted the bright pink bubble hiding the identity behind it. That was until an unexpected tear caused the bubble to burst, covering the blower's face with a sticky layer of gum.

Undeterred by the mishap, the man kept coming, barking his loud warning. "Make way! Gregor is coming through. Gregor is strong, cheap labor."

Harm stepped aside just in time, saving his shoes an unnecessary dusting from the four-foot wide, industrial mop being pushed on a mission.

The mechanic scowled. "McPherson, you're an idiot!"

"Uh oh." The mop fell to the floor as the bubble-clad man stopped short, his hands going to his ears in an attempt to stave off further verbal abuse.

"What are you doing! Clean up the mess you fool!"

When the quasi janitor started reaching for the mop, Harm beat him to it. Turning to the bullying mechanic, he thrust the wooden handle at him. "You made the mess. You clean it up." Not waiting for his reaction, Harm turned towards the office. Gregor followed close on his heels.

"Robert is not going to be happy with you."

"I'm not worried."

The man clapped his hands. "Don't worry, be happy!"

"Yeah, something like that," Harm laughed.

"Sissy is not going to be happy with Gregor," the man frowned, rubbing ineffectually at the gum plastering his face while Harm ladled himself a bowl of hot tomato soup.

"Try wiping your face with the gum that's left in your mouth. That sometimes helps."

Harm sipped the tasty soup while Gregor stood in front of a mirror, dabbing his face with the remainder of the fragrant wad. His face lit up with a happy grin when the last remnants of the burst bubble came off with ease. The clean up completed, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of small, waxy comic strips that came with each pad of gum. Smiling widely, he asked "Do you like Bazooka Joe too?"

Harm tried to answer but his mouth refused to work. Next his body began withering to the floor. His mind registered the paralysis spreading through his veins but could do nothing to stop the crippling affect it had on his limbs. The mechanic standing over him was the last thing he remembered seeing. "Take him to the hospital," the last thing he heard. (end forgotten memory)

"Who hurt 52!"

"Robert did," Cynthia answered.

Drawn back to the present by Gregor's loud concern, Harm looked down at Robert Kroger. He no longer wore his mechanic's disguise.

Meanwhile, Gregor snarled at the dead man then turned his attention back to Harm. Seeing the red cheeks and bloody nostril, the man dubiously eyed his sister.

"Sissy hurt 52 too. Sissy didn't use numby."

"He's no worse for wear."

"Sissy wrong. 52 needs cleaned. 52 needs nappie."

Harm's eyes widened as his new and diligent caregiver reached underneath the table and came up with a towel and adult-sized diaper.

"Don't worry about that now. Get me four buckets of ice water."

"Gregor help. Gregor is strong, cheap labor." With work to be done, the one-track man set the hygienic supplies aside and wasted no time leaving the room.

"Why did … you kill … Kroger?" Harm managed, choosing not to share his recently retrieved memory.

"He got me into this mess. Never listening when I told him there were too many. Never listening when I told him I needed more time."

"Too many what?"

"Subjects. But enough questions, I'm out of time. You have one last chance to tell me -- How do you remember?"

Harm stared at the once-again, seemingly sane woman, wondering if he heard right. "How? … Not 'what'?" he asked tentatively.

Fussing with her laptop, Cynthia looked up and scowled. "Yes, 'how' do you remember?"

Harm closed his eyes, realizing he hadn't heard her wrong. He almost blurted out 'Lady, you're crazy!', but thought better of it, even though she had gone off the deep end hours ago and was sinking fast.

"No answer? Fine, let's prepare you for return to your wife," she said, simultaneously recording and typing at a furious pace on her laptop.

Subject 52's Corridor was isolated 30 minutes ago. Memory editing sequence will begin once core temperature drops to 94. Meanwhile, car accident scenario is being modified to incorporate new elements.

"You won't get away with this!"

Controlled doses of lysergic acid diethylamide, phencyclidine, and a derivative of sodium amatol will be administered. Electromagnetic stimulation will be set at .0003 microvolts per millisecond to maintain Alpha waves at 8.3 Hz frequency. The algorithmic model forecasts reprogramming will be accomplished in 18 hours. Drug residue will still be in Subject 52's system when he is found down a secluded embankment. Its presence will add credence to Subject being under the influence while losing control of his SUV on his way home from an intimate weekend tryst with his mistress.

"What!"

"You have to pay," she answered simply, making quick work of spreading his toes and following through with the documented drugs.

Then Harm's stomach flip-flopped as the woman's sharp nails coerced his wedding band from his clenched fist. After stashing the ring deep in the pocket of his displaced pants, she bent her head towards his. With pragmatic efficiency, she left a trail of lipstick on his neck, culminating with a deliberate red imprint on his white shirt collar.

The stage set to her satisfaction, she smirked. "I think that will do quite nicely."

"I'll remember!"

"Like you remember everything from the last time? Oh dear, I'm quaking with concern."

Sobered by the truth of the statement, Harm searched desperately for any mental protection that might conquer the onslaught – an onslaught unlike any biological virus unleashed in his body. He tried not to dwell on the fact that he probably did the same thing once before and was only able to recall a couple meaningless pieces of the puzzle. Unwilling to give up, he whispered as much to the woman threatening his very essence as for himself and Mac – "I promise I'll remember everything."

Cynthia was about to mock the pitiful attempt when her brother returned.

"Sissy, Gregor brought the water."

"Fine, you know what to do. Put a nappie on him too."

"Where is Sissy going?"

In juvenile retribution for Subject 52's vocal audacity, she looked pointedly at said Subject and answered, "I need to check on Peter," then turned and left the room.

The first bucket of cold water revived the pain on his torso.

Harm gasped. "Gregor, who is … Peter?"

"Peter is Gregor's nephew. I watch over him for Sissy. He's sleeping."

The second bucket immediately followed, drenching his already damp clothes.

"Oh God … Gregor, help me … Undo the ropes."

"Sissy helps 52."

"No … listen to me. Sissy isn't helping me. Sissy is hurting 52."

"I help Sissy. Gregor is strong, cheap labor."

The third bucket of icy slurry had him trembling in the cold environs.

"Gregor, please … Sissy hurt me … Look at my face … Sissy hurt 52 … Untie the ropes."

The man paused momentarily, seemingly considering the simple logic before emptying the final bucket. Not knowing how to get through to the man and running out of time, Harm tried another approach. Groaning loudly as much from the discomfort as for effect, he said, "Gregor is hurting 52."

"No! Gregor not hurt 52. Gregor likes 52. 52 helped Gregor once."

Remembering the odd dream, Harm jumped on the opportunity. "Yes I did … now help me … Untie the ropes."

The man looked down sadly upon his charge while affixing the humiliating diaper. "Only two wires left on 52's head. Two wires means 52 goes away soon. Two wires means 52 no longer remembers Gregor."

"Not if you untie the ropes … 52 won't forget Gregor."

The man's eyes brightened as the warped reasoning began falling in place. "52 will remember Gregor?" he asked cautiously, touching one of the ropes securing Harm's right arm.

"Yes! … But you have to untie the ropes."

"52 helped Gregor once. Gregor will help 52 now."

"Gregor, stop!" Cynthia shouted, returning to the room just as the man's fingers started working the first knot.

"Gregor wants 52 to remember me!"

"I said stop!"

When he didn't, the blood from the exit wound, made by the bullet piercing his head, mixed with the blood already on Harm's chest and face.

"No!" Harm yelled, having no doubts about the simple man's death. Minutes later, even as the mind altering, hallucinatory drugs seeped through his veins, he continued the mantra. "I promise I'll remember."

But when the EEG's switch was flipped to 'transmit', even Harmon Rabb Junior was no match for the army of jackhammers that started breaking apart his mind. 'Under construction' took on a whole new meaning as the sledgehammers followed, trying to fit square pegs into round holes. His bowels emptied and he screamed.

---------------------

Not unlike she'd done with Chloe when concentrating on finding Harm in the vast Atlantic, Mac's fingers intertwined with Spencer's. For thirty minutes, they sat with their eyes closed, focusing their energy to cut through the turmoil and static. Committed to the attempt, neither had seen Clayton Webb slip silently from the room. But his return coincided with the first shared vision that rewarded their combined effort.

"Hooks … from a ceiling … a storage facility … maybe a walk-in cooler … to keep food cold … a local shop? … maybe … but where? …" They voiced the clues alternately.

"913 Nottingham Way," Webb answered, pulling out a local map. "Tierny's Meat Market. Or at least it was at one time."

His trance broken by the unexpected interruption, Spencer asked "How do you know?"

Webb shrugged. "I gave you the benefit of the doubt that you really did narrow the possibilities to Leeds. So I had intelligence analysts back at Langley look for any connections with McPherson."

Mac extricated her hands from Spencer's. "They found something?"

"She inherited a building from an uncle, a local butcher. It's been abandoned and boarded up for years," Webb answered, pinpointing the address on the map.

As they ran from the room, Spencer pumped his fist in satisfaction and with misplaced enthusiasm grinned. "A meat market. We were on the right track!"

-----------------

Cynthia McPherson was coming apart at the seams as she sawed through the last of the ropes with an old hacksaw found outside the room. It was quicker than untying the knots that had tightened as they air dried along with Subject 52's clothes.

With her Subject now free of his bonds, she took a deep drag on her cigarette, feeling euphoric one moment while despairing the next. Gathering her wits, she dealt with the smelly, soiled diaper next, tossing it in the corner. Grunting as she struggled to turn Subject 52's unconscious form on his side, she cleaned him, having no desire to be as conscientious as her brother. She was perspiring heavily by the time she pulled the pants back in place, cursing they had come down so much easier. After her time-consuming effort to return them above his hips, his belt was absentmindedly left undone.

Frantic minutes were spent trying to locate his wayward sock and shoe. If she had looked under her brother's stomach, she would have found them. Losing sight of the important detail, she let his foot go undressed, choosing instead to deal haphazardly with the buttons on his shirt. In the end, she was oblivious to her poor level of workmanship, skipping more than she buttoned.

Stepping back to survey her work, she stumbled over the two dead bodies -- her strong, cheap labor. And just like that, one oversight came crushing down around her. For her Doctorate in Behavioral Science, coupled with a lifetime of research, would be of no help carrying Subject 52's limp, 200 pound form up the stairs. Unable to do that herself, there could be no final staging in his SUV to support the replacement scenario.

As that reality sank in, she staggered desolately from the room. Turning off the light, she slammed the door shut behind her before securing the outside deadbolt. Plodding up the stairs and into the bedroom, the cigarette dangled from her quivering lips as tears streamed down her face. Standing over the bed, she fired the pistol.

---------------------

"Do we have a plan?" Spencer asked as they cautiously made their way down the dark alley.

The hairs on the back of Mac's neck bristled with her reply. "I smell smoke."

Webb pointed to the orange flames starting to light up the night sky. "Let's go!"

Any formal planning and regard for caution was thrown to the wind as they barreled to the back entrance of 913 Nottingham Way. With guns drawn, Webb kicked in the door. The new supply of fresh air fed the hot flames overtaking the first floor.

"Downstairs," Spencer directed, cautiously descending the dark steps, his personally planted beacon brightly burning due to the close proximity.

With the men covering both sides of the only doorframe in sight, Mac pulled back the deadbolt and went down on one knee as she pushed the door open. Her eyes now adjusted to the limited light, she was prepared to shoot anything standing between her and her husband. But in the darkened room she found nothing standing. Instead, the shadowy figures of two dead bodies littered the floor while her dazed husband tried to push himself up off the wooden table.

Rushing to his side, Mac offered a supportive hold. "Harm, you're going to be okay." She bit her lip when he pulled away, as if burned by her touch. Further assurances fell on deaf ears when his confused expression turned to outright fear upon seeing a resurrected Admiral Spencer.

To his rescuers, his shoeless foot and unkempt clothing were as disconcerting as his bloody face and battered chest. But they were no where near the magnitude of horror left by the remnants of wire protruding from his nose and cheeks, or the tremors wracking his body.

"Let's go! The fire is coming through the ceiling!" Webb shouted, still guarding the entrance while Spencer gathered the errant photos and drugs, stuffing them into the black satchel.

As part of the ceiling started raining sparks, they needed no more incentive. Grabbing the bag, Spencer pulled Harm into a fireman's carry. He then followed as Webb led the way back up the smoke-filled staircase. Mac was right on his heels. Reaching the relative fresh air of the vacant alley, Spencer eased his burden onto the ground and immediately used what light there was to attend to the remnants of the less-than-mainstream electrodes.

Harm groaned as the once-deceased man's hands converged onto his burning face. Through the discomfort, an aroma of chemical compounds ingrained in Spencer's fingers reached his nose. The calluses on those finger tips were indicative of recent years of manual lab work rather than theoretical research. His inability to explain the reference only added to his feeling of suffocation. He tried to pull away. Unsuccessful, his mind vacated the premises, making another trip down memory lane, or more accurately careened down a highway reminiscent of a demolition derby.

(dream) It was like waking to find yourself cast, without your permission, in a Star Trek scene. Only it wasn't Spock performing the mind meld. It was … Admiral Spencer!

The retired Admiral's ten fingers were none-too-gently probing every space on his head and face -- a task made much easier given the mass of wires he vaguely remembered tearing from his head.

As his former client continued his exploration, his own attempts to communicate were prevented by an all-encompassing inability to function beyond seeing or thinking. The shortcoming turned out to be a moot point when the odd examination was abruptly interrupted.

"Get out, Harrison! Get out now!" Cynthia demanded.

"My God. Is he who they've been looking for the past three days?" Spencer asked, withdrawing his hands.

"No. What they were looking for is beyond your comprehension. Now if you hope to ever continue your own research, you'll walk out of here and forget everything you saw!"

"But he's Commander Harmon Rabb of the U.S. Navy."

"Not anymore. You're living proof the Company is filled with misfits and unwanted transplants."

"But—"

"He's Subject 52 and I suggest you leave it at that!"

With a last glance at his former defense counsel, Harrison Spencer turned away only to pause as the strangled plea for help reached his ears. Hanging his head, he walked out the door, having never looked back. (end dream)

The pain and shouting dragged Harm's attention back to the present, the dream already forgotten.

"I'll bring the car around," Webb advised, taking off running.

"He needs an ambulance!" Mac yelled to his retreating form.

"… no hospitals …" Harm squirmed desperately, adding his weak two cents to the argument as smoke billowed from the open door.

"Harm, you need help."

He coughed hard. "… no hospitals!"

Finished with the de-wiring, Spencer nodded to the black satchel. "He's likely associating the equipment and drugs used on him with a hospital setting. Cynthia's process was —"

Spencer stopped short realizing the woman's whereabouts were still unconfirmed, yet her equipment and laptop remained in the basement bunker.

"What are you doing?" Mac yelled as he headed towards the burning building.

"Her research is still in there! She keeps the only copies. It'll take years to recompile if it's destroyed."

"You'll never make it back out!" Mac shouted as Spencer disappeared inside.

Her attention diverted, only her Marine-honed reflexes kept Harm from following the same path. "Harm, no!" Not waiting for an explanation, she grabbed his arm, spinning him around. When he made another effort for the door, she tackled him, knocking him onto his back.

"Let me go! He's in there!"

"It's his choice," Mac grunted as she held his determined body down, not understanding his desperate need to return to the inferno.

"NO!" he cried as the first floor could be heard collapsing into the basement.

Sensing the fight go out of him as quickly as it surfaced, Mac moved off his prone form and carefully lifted his head onto her lap. "Harm, it's Mac. Do you remember what happened?"

If her earlier touched had burned him, her question now engulfed him, obliterating all previous thoughts. He looked frantically down at his chest and came up with "… car accident …"

"Hang in there, Harm. We'll get you help."

His body unable to cope with the 72 hours of depraved captivity, he sagged defeated.

"… no hospitals …"

Mac gripped him tighter. "I'll call Lenny and Connie. No hospitals. I promise."

The squeal of tires against concrete announced Webb's return. A moment later he hopped out of the car and assisted getting Harm into the back seat. "Damn it, where's Spencer?"

Mac got in the rear seat as well, reestablishing her hold on Harm before answering. "He went back inside." They waited a hopeless ten more seconds; leaving the area as the first sounds of sirens could be heard.

------------

Buried under a blanket in the dark car, Harm slept fitfully during the 80 minute ride back to their flat in London. Though Mac didn't voice it, she was grateful for Clay's rapid transit, but fumed at his continued reticence in sharing specific details of the 'non-op'. En route she contacted Commander Leonard McCoy and his wife Constance, filling them in on what details she knew.

Feeling Harm trembling in her arms, she regretted her promise not to seek hospital care, but found some solace knowing the couple would be waiting at the Rabb flat by the time their patient arrived.

Old friends of Harm's from his Naval Academy days, they had reconnected in London. Both couples now socialized frequently, the three friends quickly making Mac feel equally welcome as they shared old memories and, more importantly, made new ones as a foursome.

Lenny McCoy served as Flight Surgeon at RAF Lakenheath. As such he had also seen Harm on a professional basis, conducting the physical needed for his limited flight hours, while other times keeping Harm mobile when his back acted up. Lenny's wife, Connie, much to Mac's sometime chagrin, was a psychologist -- a much respected and highly educated one at that. With a deep sense of foreboding, Mac feared Connie's widespread experiences in the field would be needed.

Sensing he was home, Harm stirred just in time to be able to get his unequally clad feet under him. Clay and Lenny each took one of his arms over their shoulders; the latter holding up Harm's trousers while Mac led them into the quiet flat. Busy turning on the lights, she missed the silent exchange between Lenny and his wife, both abhorring the condition of their good friend.

"… Mac? … What's happening? … Why was I in … that room? … Why Webb? … Mac? … Why Webb? …"

Unable to follow the disjointed questions, made more unintelligible by the raspy nature of his weak voice, Mac said instead. "You're home Harm. Help is here."

"Everyone out," Lenny quietly ordered as Harm curled into a fetal position on the bed.

"But—" Mac started to argue, trying to step around the doctor's protective form.

"I need some time alone with him. Connie, check out this satchel. Let me know what we're dealing with. Mac, get me some juice or water. Do you have any soup?"

Mac nodded, torn between leaving and pulling together the requested items.

"Please heat some up."

"I need to talk to him," Webb protested.

"Not until I say so," McCoy whispered with authority. "Now make yourself useful and bring me some towels, hot water and soap," he added, ushering everyone from the room.


	8. Chapter 8

"Harm, it's Lenny. Do you know where you're at?"

"Home," Harm mumbled, trying to steady the trembling coursing through him.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"Car accident," he answered, his breathing rapid and shallow.

"I see," Lenny replied, not yet ready to share what little he knew had been done to his friend. "I'd like to start an IV in your arm. You're pretty dehydrated."

"No! Just leave me alone."

"Okay, no IV. But you'll need to drink some juice instead. Meanwhile, what hurts?"

Harm wanted to scream 'my heart', but instead said, "Go away."

"What hurts, Harm?" Lenny asked again, this time using his 'take no guff' flight surgeon voice.

"My head and ribs."

"Any numbness in your arms and legs?"

"Some."

"Okay, either you let me examine you or I pull rank and we go to a hospital. I need to check your blood pressure too."

"No hospitals."

"Then that leaves me," Lenny said, voicing his selection as the lesser of two evils in Harm's mind.

Letting his morose patient continue to lie curled in a ball, he cleaned his own hands with the potent smelling disinfectant from his medical bag. He then secured the inflatable cuff around Harm's arm. Moments later he wasn't surprised when he found both an elevated blood pressure and heart rate. Later when he had Harm squeeze his hand to check his strength, he was expecting the weak grip, but not the faint white band of skin where he expected to see a wedding ring.

The knock at the bedroom door interrupted his just-underway examination. Opening the door revealed an anxious looking Mac holding juice, a concerned Connie ready to slip him a synopsis of the satchel's contents, and an annoying CIA agent pacing impatiently with a basin of hot water. On the positive side, the smell of soapy suds wafted gently through the door, signaling its readiness.

Accepting the juice from Mac and the folder from Connie, he only let Webb step foot into the room, mouthing an apologetic 'Not yet' to the women before he closed the door.

"Set that on the bed," Lenny directed as he started to untie and pull off Harm's one shoe. "Then help me undress him."

(((strong, cheap labor!)))

Not appreciating his newly acquired status as indentured servant, Webb doggedly used the opportunity to pursue the information he'd set out for days ago. "Harm, what do you remember?"

(((Webb's hungry lips devouring Mac's neck!)))

Harm yanked his foot from the doctor's grasp, sending the contents of Connie's manila file folder off the bed and overturning the basin of water over his sore torso.

(((The demure smile on Mac's face suggesting she was enjoying Webb's advances!)))

Lenny scowled angrily at Webb for taking liberties with his patient and setting off the chain reaction. A reaction that now included Harm moving into a crazed, challenging crouch on the bed. "Harm, what's wrong?"

(((What else do you remember!)))

Oblivious to Lenny'a concern, Harm launched himself at Webb. "You sonofabitch!"

(((A photo of Mac … Never!)))

"Rabb! What the hell?" Webb yelled just before Harm's arm curled tightly around his neck.

(((What else do you remember!)))

Mac entered the room on the run, with Connie right behind her. "Harm, let him go!"

(((Like every other woman you've known, she's run for her life!)))

"Captain Rabb! Stand down!" Lenny ordered, trying to break through Harm's frenzied behavior.

His airway severely compromised, Webb instinctively elbowed his attacker in the gut.

"Ugh!" Harm doubled over. Losing his balance, he stumbled forward, his trembling hands landing on the photos.

(((Do it for him.)))

He gasped for air, his strangled cry permeating the room.

(((I certainly didn't copulate with you!)))

He pushed away the arms that reached out to help him.

(((Are you positive?)))

The perspiration running off his forehead ran into his watering eyes. Through his blurred vision, he stared at his trembling hands.

(((His wedding ring hidden deep in his pocket!)))

Unsteady on his feet, he faced the mirror and focused on the lipstick traveling down his neck and staining his collar. He looked mournfully at Mac who stared back aghast.

(((An intimate weekend tryst with his mistress!)))

He yanked open his shirt and fingered his mottled chest before moving on to his marred face.

(((His wrecked SUV.)))

Not learning his lesson, Webb asked again, "What do you remember?"

Harm grabbed his scrambled head with both hands and sought refuge in the farthest corner of the room. Meanwhile, Webb was sent involuntarily from the premises, the others in the room kicking him out on his six. He was gone by the time Harm's knees buckled and his eyes rolled to the back of his head. Lenny, Connie, and Mac caught his unconscious form before he hit the floor.

-----------------

"It's no wonder he has all the classic symptoms of withdrawal, I found multiple needle marks between his toes. But I think he'll sleep through the rest of the night," Lenny shared, accepting the hot soup his wife offered. Mac declined the same offer, choosing to remain holed up on the livingroom chair where she could keep an eye on Harm's agitated form in the next room. Using her left hand, she rubbed her thumb over the date stamp and 'Subject 52' notation on the graphic photo while her right arm hugged her knees to her chest.

"I had to start an IV to get some fluids into him. I don't think he's had much to eat or drink in the past few days. His vocal cords are strained too. And you saw his torso is covered with contusions. A couple of ribs are badly bruised; but none are broken and there are no signs of internal injuries. Physically he'll be fine," he added.

Mac glared at him, her expression making it clear that she hadn't missed the fact he didn't include 'mentally' in the positive prognosis. "What about …," she gestured to the picture, unable to get the words out.

"I can't confirm he was molested."

"This time!" Mac retorted. "Then again, why add sexual assault to the list when that woman ransacked his soul," she added bitterly.

Pondering the statement, Connie and Lenny stared at the black, leather satchel and had to agree with the assessment. Whether Cynthia McPherson seized Harm's body or not, it was clear she had seized his mind and possessed him in the most violent of ways.

Shaking his head in disgust, Lenny reached into his shirt pocket. "This was in his trousers."

Mac dropped the picture and grasped the wedding band. Enclosing it in her hand, she brought it to her heart. "I need to know what happened," she whispered.

"What do you mean?" Lenny asked.

Mac directed her answer to Connie. "I need to know what she did to him! What he went through!"

"Mac--," Connie started to caution.

"No! I need to know. Otherwise I won't know how to help him!"

Connie picked up the picture from where it lay at Mac's feet. She set it with the others that were arranged amongst the medical paraphernalia, ampoules, and syringes organized on the coffee table. To their left sat the satchel itself, its gold embossed lettering proclaiming 'Cynthia J. McPherson' as its owner.

"I can theorize from the drugs in the satchel, glean information from the photos, and incorporate what Harrison Spencer told you. But I'd be basing a lot on assumptions and protocols used for similar experimentation. As well as drawing from first-hand accounts of others held against their will. Do you understand?"

Mac swallowed hard and nodded. "You're all I've got to go on right now."

Connie knew Mac had no idea what she was asking for. But there was some truth in what she said about helping Harm. So while Mac kept a death grip on the ring, Connie took a seat next to her own husband. He reached for her hand, signaling he was there for her should she need him. She returned the gesture before launching into a speculative narrative that would drain them all.

"Cynthia McPherson delved into the field of computational cognitive neuroscience. It's a relatively young field. The dominant approach is based on the simple computer metaphor which holds that human cognition is much like the processing in a standard computer. Think of the cortex as being the CPU; and the billions of neurons, with their synapses and neurotransmitters, being the bits that are directed by a binary, on-off, electrical system."

"But her process started at a much more primitive level. This empty ampoule contained a paralytic that rendered Harm totally incapable of communicating or defending himself. Even swallowing was beyond his means. So he drooled, the saliva having no where to go but down his chin and onto his chest."

"Before McPherson went too far, she would have needed to make sure he could withstand the stress. So she pulled this stethoscope from the bag and opened his shirt to listen to his breathing and heart, having no desire to inform him of his whereabouts or reason for being there. In fact, she never viewed him as anything more than a lab rat, a specimen upon which to extend her research. A point of view that was continually driven home by the video camera pointed at him 24 hours a day and the clinical recordings she made."

"Harm's initial confusion was followed by fear when she next produced blood collection supplies. At some point she screwed the needle into the blood tube holder and then strapped this rubber tourniquet around his arm. Eventually she slid the needle into a vein and slowly drew up the blood. She filled three or four tubes, more than enough to insure she had an adequate supply to determine the most efficient combination of drugs needed."

"He was awake when she stripped him naked. It seemed to him that she treated his clothes with more regard than himself, particularly when his body temperature dropped precariously close to inducing hypothermia. The cold was always present, made worse by frequent applications of water to saturate his body and the mattress upon which he lay. As intended, the cold muddled his thought processes and sapped his energy."

"When the feeding tube was inserted into his nose and the first bag of Nutri-aid filtered through, the realization hit home that he was likely facing a prolonged stay. When the first diaper validated the fact, he wanted to scream but couldn't."

"His anxiety built as each additional electrode was affixed to his head. The ones inserted into his ears made him nauseous. Up until this point, he hadn't allowed himself to think about friends and family. He had kept the motivational mechanism tucked away for when he really needed it. When he realized electrodes would also be embedded in his cheeks, he finally grasped that lifeline."

Mac gasped, her hand covering her mouth to stifle the cry that was on the verge of escaping. Using the date stamp on the image excerpted from the video, she had already done the calculation in her head. It had been taken during Harm's five month stint in the CIA. Specifically the period she had called him 17 times with no luck in reaching him. Her thoughts turned to his lukewarm reception when she showed up at his door with the Carolyn Imes files. Had she even been on his mind during the ordeal? And if so, were they good or bad remembrances?

flashback

M: Look, I know you're mad at me.

H: I'm not mad at anybody.

M: So what? You just decided to move on, leave the rest of us behind?

H: Just trying to get on with my life, you know.

M: I know you're upset.

H: You don't know anything about what I'm feeling.

M: Well I would know what you're feeling if you talked to me.

H: Hey, I thought we'd done our talking. You made that pretty clear.

end flashback

"Mac?" Connie asked concerned.

"I'm okay," she replied unconvincingly. Sniffing, she added, "Please go on."

Connie looked doubtful, but continued. "Despite the analgesic, he could feel the needle as it was carefully guided in and slowly backed out, leaving behind a thin wire beneath his burning skin. Knowing what to expect, the placement of the second wire was worse."

"The nasopharyngeal electrode was put in last. It was particularly difficult because of the feeding tube already in place, so this endonasal scope was used. After fifteen minutes of probing, blood spurted from his nose and ran down his throat. His heart rate skyrocketed. From the on-going recording, he learned his sinus had been perforated. He was on the verge of fainting when an ammonia capsule assaulted his abused nose. Revived, he had no choice but to endure the thin wire snaking up the same path until it rested against the lining of his brain."

"It was at this point Harm might have seen the 'transmit' switch on the EEG and experienced the most terrifying emotion he could know – the belief he was powerless to avoid his annihilation as a person. Already stripped of his clothes and his dignity, he was forced to stare at the machine that was there to strip his selfhood as well."

"During the first four days he was left to stare at a blank wall, shivering in a hazy stupor. Lonely and scared, he revisited the past events that had directly or indirectly led him to the hell hole, finding them easier to grasp than dwelling on the specifics of his current situation. Meanwhile the EEG kept a voyeur's vigil, obsessing over every one of his thoughts."

"He lost track of time. Additional injections and feedings, and his body occasionally being turned to prevent bedsores, became his only means of sensing the passage of time. But no matter how he was positioned, the stark wall, inches from his face, was all he was permitted to view."

"And then one day another syringe and an ampoule of Rophynol were pulled from the bag. He watched as she inserted the needle into the vial and drew up the colorless liquid. Her fingers pried apart his toes, looking for an untainted vein. Then she slid in the needle, concentrating on a slow, even delivery of the drug. He stubbornly resisted, finding some way to voice his objection. In the end, it only earned him a stronger dose of the paralytic."

"More cold water was applied before the head mounted display was tightened around his head. It contained images meant to invoke and exploit complexes repressed within his unconscious. They're kept there to maintain mental balance. We all have them. Harm's were invoked by images of his father, reminders of Diane, his ramp strike, the death of his RIO. On top of that, his constant state of being wet and cold became a tangible reminder of being lost in the Atlantic and any baggage associated with that ordeal."

"Forced to focus on the memories, the impersonal machine took full advantage of his mind, splayed open and vulnerable, its pathways there for the taking if his walls could be fractured."

"The HMD displayed the images over and over. Just as he began to drift off to sleep, more ammonia would awaken him … The images played over and over. Just as he began to drift off to sleep, he'd feel an electrical shock scorch his body … The images played over and over. Just as he began to drift off to sleep, he'd hear a piercing sound in his head … On an on it went. He fought desperately to maintain control, hoping help would arrive it time."

"The battle wasn't waged over hours, it took another five days amidst more drugs, more stressors, more diaper changes, more water."

"At times he'd lose hope. And when that happened, he imagined he had caused huge damage to those he loved. He wanted to weep, but learned crying would not purge his emotions. Then once again inner rage would take over. All the while the EEG was honing in on where his neural network had stored the tumultuous events."

"At some point the harassment stopped and the EEG machine powered down on its own. Beaten, he now saw himself as Subject 52. He heard 52's whimpering. He felt 52s tears make their way down 52's face, past 52's lips, past 52's chin, finally pooling with the drool on 52's neck."

"The nine days had been spent making a blueprint of his brain, to find out who Subject 52 was and why Subject 52 behaved as he did. The schematic also gave McPherson what she needed to hack into the sectors where Subject 52's memories were filed. And once breeched, she was ready to delete, create, and modify 52 at will."

"Don't call him that!" Mac yelled, immediately regretting her outburst when Harm began groaning in the other room. He immediately quieted when calm was restored in the living room.

"I'm sorry, Mac. It's how she saw him and, unfortunately, likely how Harm saw himself at times."

"I know," Mac whispered. Shell-shocked, she rocked herself in the chair and asked, "How much more is there?"

Connie glanced nervously at Lennie, whose mouth had long since gone dry. His somber gesture indicated in for a penny, in for a pound. So she answered Mac's question.

"Given the number of empty vials and factoring in what was used this weekend, I'd guess he was held captive for another 15 days. Eight of those days were needed to erase the memories she no longer wanted him to have and to impress a new set of experiences in their place. Though he wouldn't have been aware of them, the other seven days were used to counter his withdrawal symptoms and deal with any drug residue in his system."

"Tell me about the eight then."

Knowing any argument to do otherwise would fall on deaf ears, Connie continued.

"The Rophynol and paralytic were still being administered. But it was during this leg of the process that LSD, PCB, and Mescaline were added to the mix. The dosages and schedule of injections was designed to have the greatest impact on his individual psyche."

"He knew it was the beginning of the end. Still he fought as long as he could; telling himself over and over that he would remember, yet unsure how he would survive the days ahead."

"The LSD caused his fingers to tingle until they actually started vibrating. He knew where he was at but didn't feel a part of it. His stomach felt funny. At some point his bowels violently purged. Triumphantly, this is when she made sure he watched as she flipped the switch to 'transmit' and initiated the micro voltage and ultra short pulses from the EEG."

"The LSD loosened his mental structure, allowing in an assembly programming language. The electroconvulsive 'therapy' reconfigured a new mental model. First his familiar sense of being 'Harm' was reduced to an unconvincing memory. Then everything they wanted him to forget was overwritten with new experiences."

Mac rubbed her forehead, physically groaning as she imagined the violation.

"Mac, are you alright?" Lenny asked.

Rather than answer, she said, "Admiral Spencer said it would have been like a section of a picture puzzle in his head being taken apart, piece by piece. Each facet examined, turned, flipped over, sorted, and repainted; then made to fit back together again where they don't belong."

Connie sighed. "He was being kind. More likely Harm felt like a million parts of him were bouncing off a bug zapper for a year's worth of hot summer evenings."

Mac and Lenny gasped at the graphic picture she painted. Realizing she had upset everyone, Connie concluded her exhausting, hypothetical recitation. "Whatever he experienced, he knew his mind was being taken over and coerced until it was no longer his own."

-----------------

In the quiet stillness of the room, Harm's eyes again made the same circuit they had been making for the past 30 minutes. He stared at an uncomfortable looking Lenny and Connie McCoy who were sound asleep in chairs that had been moved in from the living room. He then glanced down at a worried Mac as she lay curled beside him, tightly holding his right hand in both of hers. His gaze then moved back to his bare left hand which flipped through the photos he had found between his and Mac's bodies.

The date stamped on the most disconcerting photo was during his stint with the CIA (((I'll remember!))). The one of Mac in Webb's arms at the recent Embassy party was the most heart-wrenching, particularly when paired with one of her with her male colleagues in Paris (((Never))). Then again, coupled with his missing ring, he felt his vague, troubled reaction was akin to the pot calling the kettle black. (((Weekend tryst))). The most confusing of the pictures was the young boy, a poster child for good looks and brains. (((Do it for him.)))

His awakening half an hour ago had preceded his willful removal of the IV needle from his hand. None of his caretakers had stirred then or later when he shifted to a sitting position to stare at the photographs. The ticking clock, now striking noon, likely meant they'd all had a very late night – a night he couldn't recall other than a passing blur of a car accident. In fact, the entire weekend was embedded in a shadowy haze.

If he didn't have to go to the bathroom so bad, he might have delayed waking them. Not because he felt they needed to sleep, but because he so feared finding out what they knew and he didn't. His dilemma took care of itself when Mac accidentally elbowed him in the ribs.

"Oww."

"Harm!" The three said simultaneously.

Evidently they were light sleepers after all. Hearing the chorus of concern and needing to lighten the 'walking on eggshells' expressions they all wore, as well as quell his own increasing anxiety, he smirked awkwardly and said, "I'd say 'Good afternoon' but I don't think it is."

When they continued staring uncertainly, he gingerly touched his swollen face and sighed. "This wasn't from an airbag." Then pointing to his bruised chest, he added quietly, "And this wasn't from a steering wheel, was it?"

"How do you know?" Mac asked cautiously, avoiding at all costs 'What do you remember?'

Even so, he visibly flinched at the question, before answering. "If I really was in a car accident, Lenny would have insisted on a hospital (((no hospitals!))). And then there are these," he whispered, warily nodding to the corroborating evidence in his hand.

Realizing what he had seen, Lenny, Mac, and Connie exchanged nervous looks. It was finally Lenny who decided his friend was up for the truth.

"You're right. It wasn't a car accident," Lenny said frowning at the pictures as well the discarded IV. "We'll explain what we can. But first, how do you feel?"

"Like I have the mother of all hangovers and missed the party," Harm answered. "Then there's the little matter of desperately needing the bathroom." (((Hold it, or make another stain.)))

Trying to shake the confusing cobwebs loose, Harm closed his eyes and shook his head, but doing so only exasperated his pounding headache and elicited a groan.

Mac tightened the grip on his hand, but he quickly freed it. "I really do need to use the bathroom."

"Do you need help?" Lenny asked.

(((strong, cheap labor)))

Harm grinned weakly and answered "Not since I've gave up diapers." He immediately sobered when he saw himself again in the picture. Somehow he knew it would be the last jest he made for quite some time. "I'm going to shower too. We'll talk when I'm done."

By sheer willpower, he made it to the bathroom on his own, his demeanor making it clear he didn't want to be touched no matter how unsteady he was on his feet.

Before he left the room, Mac's voice stopped him. "Harm …"

"What?" (((What do you remember!)))

"Here," she answered, carefully placing a clean t-shirt, boxers, and pair of shorts on the bed.

(((She meticulously marked the bag '52'.)))

Picking up the clothes before entering the bathroom, he mumbled distractedly, "Thanks."

"Captain Rabb, don't lock the door," Lenny ordered, asserting his flight surgeon card, only to hear the deadbolt slam into place seconds later. "Damn."

The scrambled eggs and toast were long since cold, the hot water tank had long since been emptied, and the three vigil keepers had long since grown concerned. Ready to take an ax to the door, they weren't sure what to do when he finally exited, looking totally spent and lost.

In the end, Connie picked up the plate of food waiting for him on the bed and said, "I'll reheat this in the microwave." In return, Harm frowned apologetically. (((bring me the tubing)))

Lenny approached him with a fresh IV bag in one hand and a carton of juice in the other. "Pick one." He chose the latter. (((the liquid snaked through the tube)))

And Mac waited to take him into her arms. But instead, he only let her exchange the white shirt he had found in the clothes hamper, and that was now clutched in his hand, with the wedding ring she placed tenderly in his palm (((he had hidden it deep in his pocket)))

He then stared vacantly and whispered "What was done to me?" (((a weekend tryst with his mistress!))).

----------------

His question went unanswered while Lenny meticulously checked his vitals and re-wrapped his ribs (((don't hurt 52))). His question went unanswered while Connie served him three helpings of food (((it look liked Pepto-Bismol))). And his question went unanswered while Mac put not only fresh sheets but new sheets on the bed (((a cold, soaking wet mattress))). He knew the activities were done as much for his benefit as to delay the forthcoming explanation.

Not allowing them to circumvent the question any longer, he lay back in bed, his upper body leaning against the headboard. "It's time to tell me."

Knowing they could delay no further, they stood protectively around him and tried to fill in the gaps of his life that had been brutally taken and possessed.

Connie took the lead and shared an abridged version of her theories.

To supplement the veracity of his wife's grim scenario, Lenny pointed out two perfectly round bruises -- one on Harm's thigh and the other between two ribs. He speculated they were caused by high-powered darts containing sedatives. He also disclosed the recent needle marks between Harm's toes, explaining the drugs dispensed were responsible for the withdrawal symptoms Harm experienced the night before.

That left Mac to fill him in on what she knew of Clayton Webb's and retired Admiral Spencer's involvement. "Bottom line -- There's something the CIA thinks you know that they're interested in. Even Spencer didn't know what it was McPherson needed you to forget."

"It was in the Navy Times … Spencer's death. He died of a stroke," Harm argued weakly, grasping at straws to refute the entire nightmare. (((the CIA is filled with misfits)))

Mac shook her head forlornly. "Harm, you only recall seeing it in the Navy Times. It was never there."

"She was able to make me believe Admiral Spencer was dead," Harm whispered, stating the conclusion for himself. "She fabricated an entire month of my life and I never suspected!"

The three remained silent while Harm tried to get his head around the fact he had not only lost the previous three days of his life, but the entire month of October 2003 as well. They watched him revisit each of the pictures, hating the struggle that played out on his face as he tried to put them into the context of what he'd just been told.

Meanwhile, from Harm's perspective, he knew they had all seen the picture of him drooling like an infant while lying naked, splayed flat on his back, with no more regard than an unfeeling corpse on a slab. (((or a specimen in an anatomy lab))).

They had all seen the mass of wires emanating from his head, elevating him to the role of unfortunate soul in an old Boris Karloff horror film.

They had all seen the HMD that scoured his emotions, eroding them until the walls he needed to survive were dismantled.

And worse of all, they had all seen his erection. (((I never copulated with you!)))

The mortification he saw on their faces was just the tip of the iceberg of what he was feeling himself.

Attempting to conjure up a concrete memory, he screwed his face into a grimace, and squinted his eyes in deep concentration. To no avail, he finally asked, "Why wasn't I taken to a hospital? (((Do you like Bazooka Joe?)))

"When we found you last night, you were adamant we didn't," Mac answered cautiously.

"I don't remember much."

"I'm not surprised. You experienced a lot of trauma. But you said much. Are you experiencing anything?" Connie asked, not wanting to pressure him but continuing to see fleeting flashes of some sort of abstract recollections cross his face.

(((What do you remember!)))

"I'd hardly call them memories!" he yelled, the vehement reaction surprising everyone as well as himself.

"It's okay, Harm. Are they like fleeting images?" Connie gently probed.

Harm shrugged in frustration, but answered, "They're more like distant echoes."

"Fragments?" Connie clarified.

Harm considered the description and nodded. "Yes, but with no context to them."

"That makes sense," Connie said.

Mac fidgeted with her wedding ring, noting Harm had set his on the bedside table rather than reseating it on his finger. Not wanting to dwell on the observation, she turned to Connie. "But the point of MemorySweep was to locate the path to Harm's 'McPherson Corridor' so Cynthia could cut and paste new dreams over old memories. If that's so, why is Harm remembering even fragments?"

"Memories aren't stored in any single location in our brain," Connie explained. "The location of a specific memory is always changing. In other words, our recall of an incident now, and more importantly the networks or pathways used to access it, will not be the same as our recall of the same incident in five year's time, or possibly even five minutes. Complicating the entire process is the fact the elements needed to reconstruct a memory are scattered in bits and pieces, fragmented if you will, in different locations of the cortex. We must retrieve and assemble them to come up with a complete picture."

"So MemorySweep has flaws," Lenny summarized.

"Cynthia McPherson did, in a manner of speaking, create and paste new memories over old. But she lost sight of the fact, or chose to ignore, the original memories were never replaced, they just went elsewhere. It's plausible she may never have realized the imperfection because the links to those memories were successfully deleted. Meaning, for all intents and purposes, it appeared her subjects couldn't recall them."

Harm swallowed hard and looked down at the bruises on his chest. (((What do you remember!))) He fingered the red welt below his clavicle. (((WHAT DO YOU REMEMBER!))) He lifted his left hand and studied the ragged scratches. (((How do you remember!))) He rubbed his temples to help evoke a thought just under the surface. (((How? Not what?"))) !

"Harm, are you alright?" Lenny asked, not liking the change of pallor that suddenly appeared on his face.

Instead of answering Lenny's question, Harm looked at Connie and stated with assurance. "She thought her program was perfect and couldn't handle finding out it wasn't."

"Harm, how do you know that?" Connie asked. "Are you remembering more specifics?"

(((How do you remember!))) Again Harm looked down at his chest. The best he could come up with was "I suspect she knew I was remembering things and wasn't happy about it." He winced as he shifted his position. "Will I remember more that just fragments?"

"Maybe. Memory associates things by analogy. Which means all kinds of connections we're not consciously aware of can cause us to remember things. Only time will tell how many of those links or associations are re-established."

Harm could sense none of his caretakers was anxious for a total recall on his part. For it meant he would have to relive the horrors over again. But 'maybe' was not the answer he wanted to hear. The realization was hitting home and hitting hard that memories were the only clue to who we really are. And too many of his were now scrambled and tossed into the wind by an invasive virus apparently propagated by the CIA itself.

Harm again picked up the photo of Mac and Webb. "Where is Webb anyway?" he asked tentatively.

"I'm not sure. But I don't think he'll be back without an invitation," Lenny answered, flexing his scraped knuckles.

"He'll be back," Harm replied. "He hasn't gotten what he came for."

"Harm, you don't have to answer this unless you want to. But what is it that you remember doing in October 2003?" Mac asked with the utmost caution, wanting as much as anything to take his attention away from the picture he was currently studying.

Harm paused and considered the question. Finally he answered. "It was a very busy month. I was on loan to PETS …" he continued as his mind retrieved the fake recollection.

(begin fake memory)

Hearing footsteps echoing through the large hangar, Alan Blaisdell looked up from the map on the table before using his heel to squash the smoldering cigarette butt.

"Well the prodigal son returns."

Harm smirked. "It was only four weeks."

The older man carefully sized up his most talented employee before grousing, "Yeah, but it was a week longer than expected."

"You missed me. I'm touched."

"Dream on. What's wrong with your voice?"

Harm smiled warmly. In the time he had been gone, his newest mentor hadn't changed. Blaisdell's gruff demeanor still did little to hide the sincere concern that lurked beneath the worn, exterior façade.

"Sore throat, last remnants of a bad cold."

"Must have been a hell of one. You've lost weight."

"They kept me busy. I hardly had time to come up for air and grab a bite to eat."

"How did it go?"

"Fine. Do I detect worry?"

"I just don't like my people being pulled out from under me. And not everyone has the constitution for the kind of work Premier Executive Transport Services requires," Blaisdell answered warily, closely watching Harm's reaction.

Harm shrugged and looked around at the few planes in the area. "I can't deny the line of work wasn't my cup of tea, but their hardware sure is better to fly."

"Oh yeah, what did they put you in?"

(end fake memory)

"I circumnavigated the globe ten times over in a Gulfstream aircraft. All unpublished flight plans. That's not unusual when you fly for Air CIA or PETS, especially when they're secret charter missions to transport illegal enemy combatants. Egypt, Syria, Uzbekistan, Romania, Czech Republic, Hungary, Cuba, Afghanistan, Libya, Jordan, Iraq – I flew in and out of them all."

He continued. "Call them what you will – abductions, kidnappings, snatches, extraordinary renditions – it all came down to secretly spiriting suspects to other countries without due process. But it had to be done. And it was my job to do so … I still lose sleep over it, you know."

Harm paused and considered what he'd just said and then frowned. "And now I find out I didn't do it after all."

"You never told me," Mac sniffed, her stomach churning with her own feelings of guilt ala memories of Paraguay and 'never.'

"What good would it have done?" he asked rhetorically, his expression distant. "Besides, most of it is classified ... or not …" Harm sighed, growing more confused by the dual realities.

"Do you … do you remember flying to Stazow?" Mac asked, wiping away her tears.

"Stazow, Poland?"

Mac nodded yes to Harm's clarifying question.

"Yeah, I was there once … It was a simple courier run … if I remember correctly …," he groaned, his ironic answer trailing off when a dizzy spell hit him.

Lenny frowned. "I'm scheduling an MRI for you this afternoon. The electrodes can cause some nerve damage, and I want to be sure there's nothing else we need to worry about. We'll have X-rays of your ribs taken too."

"But—"

"No sense arguing, Captain. I'm also letting General Cresswell know you'll be on sick leave the rest of the week." Lenny pulled a bottle of pills from his bag. "Take these if the headaches and ribs get too bad. You'll need to see Connie, or someone else, on a professional basis too."

"I suppose it goes without saying, you're pulling my flight status," Harm whispered, too wrung out to muster a formidable defense.

"For the time being," Lenny answered, once again taking Harm's pulse and checking the dilation of his eyes. When he was done, Harm curled on his side.

"Harm, this will go a lot easier if you let your friends help you through it," Connie added supportively.

In response, Harm revisited the picture of the two-year old boy. (((Who is Peter?))) He then pulled the blanket tightly around him, sending the clear message he was done talking. (((I never copulated with you! … Are you positive?)))


	9. Chapter 9

Later that day, Harm's MRI, venereal tests, and x-rays came back negative. The positive news eased some of their worries but couldn't overcome all the challenges ahead. Even so, a routine of sorts soon established itself for the remainder of the week.

When he wasn't nibbling at the meals Mac prepared him, or enduring Lenny's daily check ups, or complying with the private, mostly one-sided sessions with Connie that followed, Harm spent a lot of time lying in bed. Not because he was physically incapable of otherwise functioning, but because he was drawn to the seclusion the bedroom offered. The seclusion he hoped would help unravel the swirling vortex in which he could so easily become lost.

His once expressive eyes were dulled by the pictures he insisted on studying, by the wall mere inches from his face that inexplicably morphed into a trail of lipstick, and by the still orphaned ring that stared accusingly back at him from the bedside table. When he added it all together, he felt dirty, damaged, and dishonest.

Occasionally he ventured out into their living space and tried to act as though things were normal. If for no other reason than to convince himself it was time to move on, and that he was fine, whether that was true or not. For her part, Mac let him drive the bus, but stood ready when he wanted to talk.

"Webb called again," Mac shared during one of the lengthier discussions she and Harm had the past five days. This one had just surpassed the two minute mark and had veered into meatier topics than the status of the honeysuckle vine that needed trimmed.

Harm continued puttering around the small kitchen. "What did you tell him?" he asked warily.

"What you told me to -- That you'd be in touch if you remembered anything of importance. Okay?"

"Yeah … thanks … Umm … Lenny cleared me for work. I'm returning tomorrow."

"Are you sure you're up for it?"

"The ribs don't hurt as much, and my face has healed. Besides, I'll go crazy if I lay around here any longer."

"It's good to hear you say that. I was getting worried."

Harm finished putting away the dishes, not knowing what to say. Looking for something else to keep himself occupied, his eyes fell upon a photograph sticking out of Mac's purse.

"Mac?"

"Yeah?"

"Is this her? Is this Cynthia McPherson?" he asked helping himself to the photo.

Mac bit her lip and nodded before answering. "Constable Wickham of the London Police Department gave it to me when we first started looking for you. It's a screen capture from the CCTV near the Kensington parking lot."

"I know. I recognize my SUV."

"But not her?"

Harm didn't answer. Instead he stared at the photo. Again it was one worth a thousand words. So much so, the turmoil he'd managed to hold in check resurfaced as his mind's eye manufactured his version of the video from which it was taken. Though the view was frequently interrupted with mental white noise, it was sufficient to see the scene unfold.

Beads of perspiration formed on his upper lip while watching the woman slip behind him with open familiarity. When she leaned in and her hand snaked around to his front to cop a feel, his groin physically betrayed him. And when he saw himself responding to the seduction with equally casual assurance, another piece of his heart fractured as more of the fragmented echoes fell in place.

"Harm, do you recognize her?" Mac asked again.

His answer came out as a strangled gasp for air. "I'm sorry!" he cried, running from the room and out into the darkness of the night.

He straggled in later to find Mac crying in their bed, giving him the space he needed. Half of him wanted so badly to take her in his arms and ease her pain with love; while the other half added hypocrite to the litany of sins he attributed to himself. Intellectually, he knew the latter feelings were based on a cruel fabrication. Still he couldn't muster an intimate gesture to soothe his heart or hers. So instead, he just sat on the bed and said again, "I'm sorry, Mac."

"It's okay, Harm. But can you tell me why? Is it because of the picture of me and Webb; or the one of me with my colleagues in Paris?"

He jumped up. "No! It's not your fault! It's mine!"

"Tell me." Mac's hand snared his and held on tight as she pulled him back down.

"I can't."

"Because you don't remember?"

Unable to face her, Harm turned his back to her. His shoulders slumped when he answered, "No, because I do."

Mac rubbed the center of his back. "Really remember? Or are you just experiencing the thoughts she put in your head?"

"Don't you see! It doesn't matter. For me, they're real. And you deserve better."

"Oh, Harm," she cried, finally understanding.

------------------

And so it pretty much went for the next two weeks. While he successfully returned to his job, the echoes of his infidelity continued like a bad dream that would not end. Consequently, there were no late night love making sessions, no creative morning awakenings, no spontaneous reasons to be late for work, and no 'name that tune' strains coming from the bathroom.

Still, every morning Mac tried to free him from his shell, reaching just a little bit closer, holding just a little tighter, and praying just a little harder each time.

In the end, he knew she scooted from the bed so he wouldn't see her cry. He knew she headed to the bathroom, wanting to get their before he used up the hot water while trying to remove the stain from his soul.

But slowly her patience and persistence paid off, and she made some inroads. And then one morning he mustered the courage. And they tried. And he failed miserably.

"It's okay, Harm. It'll just take time."

He squirmed out of her embrace and turned so she couldn't see the tears pooling in his eyes, and to spare himself the same. "Go take your shower, Mac. You shouldn't be late."

Her heart ached, not wanting to leave him alone like this. "What about you?"

"I'll take the train. I have a late morning appointment to see Lenny at Lakenheath."

"About getting your flight status reinstated?"

"Yeah."

"Don't be late. It won't help your cause."

"It won't matter anyway. I'm a basket case."

"Don't you dare say that again! You'll get through this, Harm. We'll get through it."

"Mac—"

"Don't say it, Harm!"

When she was out of earshot, he finished the thought as the cold rain of the mid October day pelted the window. "I'm sorry."


	10. Chapter 10

Despite Mac's order not to do so, he had dozed off after she kissed him goodbye. It was the sound of the mousetrap that startled him awake before he could sleep through his appointment with Lenny. He considered letting the creature succumb by itself. But this one was turning out to be a fighter, and even he couldn't listen any longer to its struggles. So he groaned, rolled out of bed, and padded in his boxers to the top of the steps.

He hadn't been down to the basement in weeks, not since the morning of the Embassy party. Mac had no reason to visit the cold, unwelcoming space. And he only did so when mouse duty called; and admittedly, he had been neglecting that responsibility lately.

He flicked on the light switch, but the bulb burned only for an instant, its filament choosing that moment to wear out. So he grabbed a flashlight instead and headed down the wooden steps.

Like water streaming forth from an open faucet, he could hear the rainwater pouring through the weep holes in the old, cinder block foundation. The runoff then ran down the slightly sloped, cement floor on its way to the drain and eventual return to the Thames River. Consequently, during particularly wet periods, and that meant most of the time in London, the basement had a damp, pungent, musty smell. And while that smell was present now, it did little to camouflage the malodorous stench permeating the place.

It didn't take a rocket scientist to identify the source. He was obviously paying the piper for not having disposed of a few dead mice. The odors swirled around him, each smell chasing the other, creating a vortex that not only accompanied him, but pulled him down the steps.

The farther he descended, the faster his thoughts spiraled until, like a centrifuge, his present circumstances separated from his past. And it was the latter onto which his mind again grasped. And like before, he dreamt the dreams he could never recall, and he re-lived the events which couldn't be real.

----------------

He re-lived dropping the first storage container into the Atlantic … the confrontation in the Staszow airport hangar with the bullying mechanic … his new friend … the sweet smell of Bazooka gum … Gregor is strong, cheap labor … the nauseous feeling when he realized the tomato soup had been tainted with a debilitating drug … the orders to take him to the hospital.

He re-lived waking up in that 'hospital' to find it a sparsely furnished cave with a low ceiling … his face just inches from the wall closing in on him.

He re-lived the sounds of scuffling feet, an incessant hum, and a steady ripple … the smell of blood … the mounted video camera, with its blinking red light … his elongated body, with its slowly rising and lowering chest … the saliva running down his chin … his inability to form words or simply curl his fingers … the shocking realization he was paralyzed.

He re-lived the lithe fingers unbuttoning his short, sliding the garment off his shoulders, and exposing his torso to the cold air … the stethoscope's icy bell … the woman's uncaring demeanor … his sleeve bunched at his bicep … the needle sliding deep into his vein … the removal of four vials of blood from his arm.

He re-lived his head being straightened on the pillow and the disgust on the woman's face when his drool transferred to her hand … his silent pleas going unheard as his watch, ring, and neck chain were callously removed; and every article of clothing being stripped from his body … the cruel hypocrisy of his belongings being handled with more attention than his disconnected, naked, shivering body left splayed on the thick mattress.

He re-lived the extension of his neck … the three attempts to insert the feeding tube through his nose … the sick feeling of watching it descend down his throat … the milky substance entering his system without his permission … his terrified whimper as the diaper was pulled up between his legs … the tabs snugly affixed around his waist … his humiliation when Gregor later attended to the soiled 'nappie'.

He re-lived the placement of 32 electrodes … the parting of his hair until his scalp was exposed … each area cleaned … the skin pulled tight and roughed up with a stylus so the conductive paste would have something to grip … the metal ovals held tight against his head until the paste set up … and the emotionless, play-by-play recordings of the progress being made.

He re-lived Gregor meticulously wiping the unending froth from his chin … the placement of electrodes deep in each ear … thinking about Mac, and his friends and family … Gregor shaving his face and his insistence that an analgesic be used … the woman bending in close … her tainted breath kicking in his gag reflex … the insertion of wires into his burning cheeks via syringe.

He re-lived the burst from the aerosol can directed up his nose … the ammonia capsule forestalling his fainting … Gregor bending his head back … his first view of the EEG machine … the violation of his nostril … the blood spurting from his nose and running down his throat … the subsequent insertion of the final electrode until it rested against his brain … the two-way switch on the EEG!

He re-lived his nose being packed with cotton … the wad of gauze stuffed into his mouth to stifle his raw screams … the realization there was no one was present who could or would prevent the unsolicited modification of Harmon Rabb Junior.

He re-lived being alone in the dark … his joints aching from the cold … the fingernails of his right hand scratching the bed sheet as his head faced the cave wall … hour after hour after hour … being turned occasionally … but always the cave wall mere inches from his face … a fresh bag of food … more ammonia … a fresh diaper.

He re-lived finding out it was only 'Day 4' when it felt like 40 … 'Phase 1' mapping completed … Phase 2 about to start … "Why are you doing this?" … his legs being spread, creating a workspace on the bed … "Why me?"

He re-lived his toes being pried apart … the alcohol swab … the prick … Rohypnol! … the wires being attached to his eye lid and finger … and the HMD being tightened around his head.

He re-lived every image that cycled through … his father … the deaths of Jem, Diane, Mace, and Jordan … his relationships with most of them plus Annie and Renee … Mac … Mac and Bumby … Mac and Webb … Paraguay … and Never.

He re-lived … images … pain … images … ammonia … images … feeding … diaper change … images … PAIN … another toe … images … ammonia … being turned.

He re-lived "Remove his nappie" … Gregor's big hands fumbling to remove the recently changed diaper … the cold air on his exposed privates … "Bring me those two buckets" … so tired … so cold … so alone … "Pour it over him" … the slurry of ice water shocking his system and soaking the mattress beneath him.

He re-lived COLD! … so cold! … Too cold to concentrate … Too cold to fight … Temperature is 94. Down another half a degree. More breaks are developing!

He re-lived hearing it drip to the floor and trickling toward the unseen drain.

He re-lived the wire being removed from his finger … the hand … Oh God! … the pressure … the heat … the smell … the wetness.

He re-lived Mac's photo (NEVER!) … Webb and Mac together (LIKE EVERY OTHER WOMAN YOU'VE KNOWN, SHE'S RUN FOR HER LIFE.) … his CIA Badge (GO WRESTLE ALLIGATORS) … the images eroding his walls.

He re-lived the cell phone ringing ... "Damn it, not now." … It rang again … "What is it! … Now? … For the love of-- … Fine! I'll be there" … "Sissy mad?" … "We have to go." … "But Gregor not done working at hospital." … "Leave him!" … He felt the wire reattached … "Where are we going?" … "You're going to your room." … "For how long?" … "As long as it takes! And for Gods sake, change your lab coat. You look like a meat butcher gone amuck."

He re-lived the awareness that no one was coming to service him … no one offering 'relief' when it became physically impossible to keep his eyes open … no one coming to offer a respite from the pain.

--------------

After a brief intermission, the dream resumed … When it did, he didn't know Gregor and Cynthia had unexpectedly departed the scene 70 hours ago. Or that 48 hours ago the impersonal machine had developed the algorithm and schematic needed to breach his mental firewall. Or that once it had, it humanely cut off the electrical shock and allowed him to sleep torment-free for two days.

When he woke after those two days, he found himself curled up on the cave's dirt floor, alone.

He had been alone for awhile. The stench coming from his diaper and the painful growl emanating from his stomach supported the theory. The movement of his arms and legs added credence. And the dead battery in the video camera made it hard to refute.

Some sort of macabre justice had intervened when he evidently toppled himself off the bed, the motion pulling free the electrodes in his ears, nose, and cheeks. Now pushing his weak body up to a sitting position, his trembling hands fell upon the discarded HMD and then the puddle of water that had kept him alive. Those same hands proceeded to tear away the remaining cranial electrodes still attached to his head; then went to work on the wire taped to his eyelid and wound round his finger. The burns on the latter stung but hadn't blistered.

All that remained was the tube snaking from his nose. It still tethered him to the empty bag of 'Nutri-Aid' hanging from the pole. Without thinking, he threw his head back, grasped the tube at the point of his nose, and pulled straight up. The tube was no sooner out than he vomited up what little phlegm remained in his stomach.

Still shaken by the self-administered removal of the tube, he nonetheless pulled himself to his feet. Leaning heavily on the bed, he pulled the diaper free in an equally swift movement. Tossing it in a corner, he reached for a towel conveniently stocked near the bed and allowed himself only mere moments to clean himself before seeking escape.

If he had been thinking clearly, he might have thought to permanently disable the EEG and laptop that sat nearby. But thinking clearly was a lot to ask at this point. So instead, locating an exit became his main goal; finding his clothes in the process would be an added bonus.

Pushing off the bed, he was faced with the immediate decision of which way to turn. During his time on the bed, he'd never seen them come or go. He'd never seen a door, a crawlspace, or a hatch. Setting his sights on an area of the cave not visible from his previously frozen vantage point, he stumbled unsteadily in that direction. Too dark, he couldn't make out anything specific. Still his eyes remained fixed on the area, drawn by something he couldn't put his finger on. And then it came to him – the smell of blood. ((("And for Gods sake, change your lab coat. You look like a meat butcher gone amuck.")))

He slowly walked forward, his arms outstretched. And then his bare, left foot tripped on the rubber hose. Pitched forward several feet, his cold, right foot came forward and splashed down in the puddle of sticky liquid. The solid table stopped him from doing a face plant on the floor. It also drove home the realization he wasn't alone after all.

In a single glance, the smell of blood, the rippling sounds, and the occasional hum he'd heard was explained. For on the table lay a corpse of Middle Eastern descent; a corpse with an obscene hose connecting its neck to a pump; a corpse with pounds of salt in its chest cavity. ((("But Gregor not done working at hospital." … "Leave him.")))

Harm quickly backpedaled in disgust. He no sooner found a small tunnel to retreat through than he ran smack into the metal, six-foot square, storage container. A container no different than the one he dropped into the Atlantic. A container already seated on a hydraulic lift that would no doubt lift it overhead into Staszow's Hangar 13 once it was filled to capacity.

"Oh God!"

His suppositions were reinforced when he unzipped one of two heavy, black body bags lying in the container. The stench of the decaying flesh sent him backpedaling in yet another direction. His stomach flip-flopped, his vision swam, and the blood drained from his own head as he made yet another turn in the dark labyrinth of horror. His legs gave out when he fell into the arms of retired Admiral Harrison Spencer.

------------

He re-lived his encounter with Spencer … "Get out, Harrison! Get out now!" … "My God. Is he who they've been looking for the past three days?" … "No. What they were looking for is beyond your comprehension. Now if you hope to ever continue your own research, you'll walk out of here and forget everything you saw!" … "But he's Commander Harmon Rabb of the U.S. Navy." … "Not anymore. You're living proof the Company is filled with misfits and unwanted transplants."

He re-lived Admiral Spencer turning a blind eye to his plight … the paralytic rendering him useless again … the reinsertion of the feeding tube and the electrodes in his ears, cheeks, and nose without benefit of analgesic … plus one each on his temple and forehead.

He re-lived An explanation for Subject 52's weight loss, Spencer's appearance, and things beyond my control will be dealt with during the memory wipe.

He re-lived "Only two wires left on his head. Two wires means 52 goes away soon. Two wires means 52 no longer remembers Gregor!" … "I wish it was 'soon'. Unfortunately, it'll take 15 more days. But you're right; this is the final leg of his journey, so say goodbye if you must."

He re-lived more of the cold slurry over his torso … his legs spread apart … the leather case unrolled between them … her hand holding his right foot … the alcohol swab … his tender instep registering the pain … his fingers tingling … his left foot swabbed … "I won't forget!" … the needle driven deep … "I'LL REMEMBER!" … his head yanked back … his eyes only able to focus on the two-way toggle switch of the EEG console … "No you won't."

He re-lived seeing the switch flicked from "Receive" to "Transmit" just as his bowels released … the dizziness … visual distortions … restlessness … confusion … panic.

He re-lived a thousand dentists centering their drills on his head at the same time; tearing his mind apart and putting it back together until it was no longer his own.

-------------------

If waking up in Staszow had been rounds one thru eleven, waking up in Leeds was Round 12.

He re-lived it all again … his abduction … the second container drop into the Atlantic … the beating from the CIA's second in command … waking to find the wires protruding from his swollen face … seeing the EEG machine with its two-way switch.

He re-lived the lithe fingers undoing his tie … his shirt sliding off his shoulders … his battered chest exposed to the cold air … the thermostat turned lower … the ever present threat of the battery and wires … the icy water poured over his torso … the subsequent drenching of his arms and legs … the frosty draft coming through the vent … the ice between his thighs.

He re-lived Mac's red dress … Webb's hungry lips … her demure smile … his splayed legs … the removal of his shoe.

He re-lived asking "Is Robert your strong, cheap labor now?" … her anger, worry, and fear … "WHAT DO YOU KNOW OF STRONG, CHEAP LABOR?" … his despair when he couldn't answer because he honestly didn't know … the ampoule of Rohypnol … the syringe … his toes spread … the hot needle prick … "What do you remember!" … the cigarette and spearmint mixture … her clenched fist as it came down hard on his chest … the ring on her little finger opening a cut near his clavicle.

He re-lived the ice … wet clothes … air-conditioning … the relentless questioning … assaults from an endless supply of ammonia capsules … more blows to his body … "What do you remember!" … more ammonia … more ice … more water … more smoke … "What do you remember!"

He re-lived her reaction when he answered "the cave" … his mental scream when she launched himself at him … frantically reaching between his legs … another syringe … his praying when she selected the ampoule of PCP ... his relief when he found out it wasn't intended for him.

He re-lived waking to the banging of the door … the naked, crazed woman standing beside him … "Cynthia, what the hell is going on?" … "It's your fault. And it's his fault. And you're both going to pay." … the shooting of Robert Kroger between the eyes … the slamming door when she left him alone.

He re-lived the dim, 40-watt lit interior … Kroger's wide open eyes … the picture of Mac and Webb … his trousers and boxers down around his knees … his struggles to break free of the ropes.

He re-lived hearing the high-pitched tone from the EEG indicating his 'Corridor' had been located.

He re-lived the dramatic contrast of his declining condition with that of a refreshed Cynthia McPherson towing a very alive Gregor behind her.

He re-lived asking "Why did you kill Robert?" … "He got me into this mess. Never listening when I told him there were too many. Never listening when I told him I needed more time." … "Too many what?" … "Subjects."

He re-lived "You have one last chance to tell me -- How do you remember?" … and his response "How? Not 'what'?" … and the realization the woman had gone off the deep end.

He re-lived "No answer? Fine, let's prepare you for return to your wife." … the nails coercing his wedding band from his clenched fist … the ring hidden away … the blazed trail of lipstick.

He re-lived searching desperately for any mental protection that might conquer the onslaught yet to come … "I promise I'll remember everything." … her juvenile retribution when she looked pointedly at him and said "I need to check on Peter," then turned and left the room.

He re-lived "Gregor, who is Peter?" … "Peter is Gregor's nephew. I watch over him for Sissy. He's sleeping." …"Oh God! Gregor, help me. Undo the ropes." … and the bullet ending the simple man's death.

He re-lived the injections of the mind altering, hallucinatory drugs … and his continuing mantra of "I promise I'll remember."

He re-lived the army of jackhammers breaking apart his mind and the sledgehammers that followed, trying to fit square pegs into round holes.

-----------------

When Harm didn't arrive for his appointment at Lakenheath and Mac couldn't raise him by phone, all concerned parties descended on the Rabb residence. Arriving at the same time, their quick search of the flat left them with one final possibility. Mac's feet pounded down the basement steps. Lenny McCoy followed behind along with his wife. The overpowering smell momentarily halted their descent, but not for long once they spotted the flashlight below them. Its fading light served as an immediate beacon for the prone body in the dimly lit corner.

"Harm!" Mac rushed to his side. He laid face down, his torso trapping his arms beneath him. The cold rainwater from the weep holes flowed around his shivering form, soaking his boxers, the only garment he wore.

"Wait, Mac. Let me support his head. We don't know whether or not he fell," Lenny warned.

Taking the necessary precautions, they carefully rolled Harm onto his back. Connie and Mac reacted together, both seeing for the first time the putrid mouse clenched in his hands and held to his bloody nose. "Oh, God."

"Harm … can you hear me buddy?" Lenny asked, extricating the rank remains from his friend's death grip. "Harm …"

The odors swirled around him, each smell chasing the other. Until, like a centrifuge, his past circumstances separated from his present. But this time when he woke, the dreams remained for the retelling.

"Mac…?"

"No, that would be her," Lenny answered, making room for Mac.

"Harm, are you okay?"

"Yeah. I'm just cold," he answered. His chattering teeth backed up the statement but did little to convince everyone he was fine.

Helping him to a seated position, Mac asked, "Can you make it upstairs?"

He nodded a determined yes, but it took the help of Lenny and Mac to get him on his feet. With an arm draped over each of their shoulders, they started guiding him out of the rancid room. But he held back, not yet ready to leave.

"Harm, what's the matter?" Lenny asked, worried his friend had told a half-truth about his wellbeing and was now paying the consequences.

"More than you know," he answered quietly, his voice cracking.

"Harm, are you hurt?" Mac asked.

"No."

"Then what is it?" she asked, anxious to get him to fresher air.

Harm looked at the foul mouse that now lay at his feet. "Call Webb … Tell him I remember … everything."

Mac, Lenny, and Connie shared the same nervous expression. Then Mac looked into Harm's haunted eyes. What she saw told her 'everything' was unimaginable.

---------------

The way he kept bringing his fingers to his nose unnerved them; and the devastation on his face frightened them. Still they held off their questions while Lenny examined him for any serious injuries from his fall off the second-to-last basement step. Finding nothing worse than the bloodied nose, they waited warily when he insisted on a hot shower. The modicum of relief they felt when he finished it in a timely manner was immediately tempered when he exited looking spent and lost in his Navy sweats.

When he decided to eat a hot bowl of soup and a thick sandwich, they remained patient. But when he mechanically went for seconds, it was time to intervene before he crawled any deeper inside himself.

"Harm—"

"It's alright, Mac. Webb's here. We can get started," Harm said when he heard the doorbell ring.

With forced civility, Mac opened the door and allowed Webb to enter. Uncertain what to say, she settled on "It's been three weeks since we found Harm. I'm surprised you're still in the UK."

"Who says I didn't leave and come back?"

"Did you?" Lenny asked.

"Yes, as a matter of fact," Webb answered then sought out the reason he was there. "How are you doing, Harm?"

Harm rubbed the back of his neck and eased down into the overstuffed living room chair. "How would I know?" he asked bitterly, voicing the first real emotion since coming up out of the basement.

His rhetorical question hung in the air as everyone nervously took seats. Webb was particularly uneasy. "Rabb, some of what you might share is probably classified. Maybe you and I ought to--"

In counterpoint to their sitting, Harm jumped to his feet. "Classified!" he shouted and began pacing. "Hell, they already know about the CIA's MemorySweep Program … They already know it was used on enemy combatants interrogated at a black site … They already know the 'less valued assets' were returned to society with no memory of having been tortured or held captive … They already know it was used on me – not once, but twice!"

His chest heaving and his face red, Harm paused and worked hard to gather his thoughts. With his hands gripping the fireplace mantle and his back to them, he finally said quietly, "They already know I haven't been intimate with my wife since Leeds."

Webb squirmed in his seat. Unable to refute the need to have anyone leave the room at this point, he said, "Fine, tell me what they don't know."

Harm again brought his hand to his drained face, a hand whose still missing ring added credence to the truth of his last statement. Remembering what that same hand recently held, most of them winced as he inhaled deeply; and all waited for him to continue. The McCoys sitting side by side, their hands entwined for support, their faces pale, and their lips dry. Webb on the edge of his seat, the tie of his three-piece suit uncharacteristically loosened. Mac with her knees pulled tight to her chest, tears pooling in her eyes, the biting of her lower lip the only thing keeping her sobs at bay.

Spurred on by the faintest traces of the smell that made the unfathomable all too real, Harm lowered his arms to his sides, put on a brave face, and turned to face them.

"They don't know Robert Kroger, second in command at the CIA personally ran Staszow … They don't know how he funneled ten times more enemy combatants through it than any other black site … Enemy combatants whose terrorist connections sometimes turned out to be nothing more than the color of their skin … They don't know … "

Harm paused and swallowed hard. In keeping with the stunned silence, the volume of his voice dropped several levels when he continued. "They don't know that MemorySweep was too time and resource intensive to return them all with no recollection of their interrogation. They don't know Kroger couldn't have first-hand accounts of the torture exposed, so he simply killed them and then doctored the records to cover his six. They don't know McPherson, fearing the CIA would dump MemorySweep, went along with the murders to protect the veracity of her process."

Harm paused. The rustle as he pulled a piece of paper from his sweats was the only sound in the room. The crinkling as the note exchanged hands with Webb made the real setting surreal.

"They don't know these GPS coordinates … coordinates of where I dumped over 70 bodies into the Atlantic," he said, his voice barely audible; his bowed head screaming shame and remorse.

In contrast Mac's head shot up, no longer able to stifle her cry. Her arms reached out to him, needing to comfort him for her sake as well as his. But Harm wasn't ready and, despite wavering unsteadily on his feet, simply shook his head and grabbed the mantel for support.

"They don't know there are likely other pilots, no longer alive, that did the same."

Even Webb's face finally blanched. Meanwhile, Connie joined Mac in weeping openly and Lenny coiled, ready to vent his anger. He'd already failed once to remain true to his oath to 'first do no harm'. Now his clenched fists battled against a second occurrence. This time, instead of striking out, he turned to Webb and shouted "Why!"

When all eyes shifted to him, Webb uncomfortably gave them the Company line. "If we're going to win the war on terror, a lot of what needs to be done has to be done quietly, using whatever methods are available. That's the world terrorists operate in! So we have to do the same, even if it means working on the dark side."

Connie found her voice. "To eradicate innocent people! To kill and violate our own!"

"Robert Kroger operated within his own parameters," Webb defended weakly.

Lenny shot back. "He operated in the dark ages!"

Webb sighed. "Yes he did. And thanks to Harm, we know that now."

It took a few moments for everyone to consider that the agency whose mantra was 'need to know' had found themselves in the position of 'needs to know.'

"You're telling us the Company never suspected what Kroger was doing?" Connie spat incredulously.

"No, they did suspect. Deputy Director Kershaw even sent a team to conduct a 3-day surprise inspection of Staszow. But they didn't find proof."

"When?" Harm asked warily, still maintaining his position at the fireplace.

"What?" Webb asked.

"When was the surprise inspection?"

Webb again shifted uncomfortably but finally answered. "It turns out the same time you were there – October 2003." There was no need for Webb to spell out all that could have been prevented if they had found what they were looking for.

While the others struggled to get their heads around the cruel timing, Harm re-lived his encounter with Spencer … "Get out, Harrison! Get out now!" … "My God. Is he who they've been looking for the past three days?" … "No. What they were looking for is beyond your comprehension. Now if you hope to ever continue your own research, you'll walk out of here and forget everything you saw!" … "But he's Commander Harmon Rabb of the U.S. Navy." … "Not anymore. You're living proof the Company is filled with misfits and unwanted transplants."

Mac couldn't take Harm's devastated look any longer. She stood and went to his side, willing to risk his wrath. Not saying anything, she grasped his cold hand. It drew him out of his deep reverie but didn't entirely fill the gulf that remained on his face when he continued.

"Admiral Spencer knew of the cave's existence. It was small, excavated out of the hillside behind Hangar 13. But he believed it was used to deal with an occasional interrogation gone terminal, not the extremes Kroger went to. Anyway, when he found me there, he thought it was me the inspection team was looking for. It's also when he … when he …"

"When he infused his mental beacon and then left you there," Mac angrily finished for him.

For a change, it was Webb who next offered up a little more information. "And he kept what he did know quiet to keep alive his own dream of having the CIA reinstate research on Stargazer. At least until he found out that McPherson had abducted you a second time. Then his conscience finally kicked in."

Harm nodded, relying on Mac's grasp to keep him physically grounded.

"Harm, please sit down," Mac implored.

"No."

Even though he looked ready to collapse, Mac didn't pursue the request. Somehow she understood his need to remain in control of what he could. And asserting that control, he turned the tables on Webb. "What we're you doing at the Embassy Party?"

"I was in the UK on another assignment. Kershaw pulled me from it and had me following McPherson. She went to the party, I followed."

Harm re-lived the photo propped between his splayed legs … Mac's red dress … Webb's hungry lips.

He shook his head to dispel the image. "How convenient; you so easily gave McPherson what she was looking for -- something to mess with my mind."

"Evidently McPherson knew your weaknesses better than most. In hindsight, it's the same reason she sent Kroger to Paris -- more photos that would trigger something in that hard head of yours," Webb explained, not outright apologizing for taking advantage of Harm's absence at the party, yet truly regretting the role he'd played in handing Cynthia McPherson exactly what she needed.

Everyone glared in Webb's direction. Sensing it was time to leave, he stood. "I need to bring Kershaw up to date. Is there anything else that 'They don't know'?"

Mac tightened the grip on Harm's hand when she felt him start to pull away. She turned to face him when he remained silent. She wrapped her arms around him when the blood drained from his face.

His disquieting reaction brought Lennie and Connie to their feet to circle the wagons.

"Is there something else?" Webb asked.

Harm managed a nod. Before his legs gave out, he answered, "They don't know I had a son."

--------------

Mac wasn't sure what shocked her most – his son or his use of the past tense. There was little time to contemplate the answer while supporting Harm's body.

"It's time to sit, Harm," Lenny ordered, stepping in to help maneuver him to the nearest chair.

Harm spun out of their grasp and fell to his knees. His forearms encircled his head as tears pooled in his eyes. "I couldn't save him! He died in the fire. I let him die!"

Before the others could say or do anything, Webb intervened. "Harm, listen to me. The boy wasn't yours. Do you hear me? He wasn't your son."

Mac, Lenny, and Connie looked at Webb, who shrugged, "I haven't exactly been doing nothing the past three weeks."

Mac settled beside Harm on the floor, holding him close, her tears mixing with his. "Come on Harm. Let's listen to what Clay has to say." The glimmer of hope that Harm might not have to deal with the enormity of such a tragedy was clearly tempered by the fact Webb hadn't denied the presence of a boy in the inferno.

When Harm didn't say anything, Mac nodded to Webb. "What do you know?"

"MI5 did find five bodies in the ashes – Harrison Spencer, Robert Kroger, Gregor and Cynthia McPherson, and the woman's son." When everyone's face portrayed horror, Webb quickly continued. "I should have said the mummified remains of her son. They estimate he died ten years ago."

"By the way, Cynthia McPherson didn't die in the fire. They found a self-inflicted bullet in her head."

"Anyway, it was her twin brother's disability that led McPherson into her chosen field. While Gregor's mental deficiencies were caused at birth, her career choice was nurtured by years in his presence. At an early age, she learned she could manipulate him. She grew to love the power and control she had over him. Once she got a taste of that, she wanted more and eventually developed MemorySweep."

"Her research and work consumed her. It was her life. She wasn't interested in romantic relationships. Then thirteen years ago, when she was 27, she was raped on her way home from work. She didn't tell anyone, nor did she abort the pregnancy that resulted. She continued to use Gregor in whatever capacity she needed, and she kept the boy as a hateful reminder of what had been done to her."

"How … how did the boy die?" Harm choked out.

"They estimate he was two years old when he fractured his skull. It's likely only Gregor and Cynthia know the exact circumstances."

Silence reigned over the place. Each of them digested and processed the information that had been brought to light. Over time, Webb made an unannounced exit from the premises. Later, the McCoys surveyed the scene before them and opted to let nature deal with the healing to come. Left alone, Harm and Mac continued sitting on the floor. The sides of their heads were propped against the others; their eyes were closed, their breathing in sync.

Hours after his day had begun with a tumble down the steps, Harm was the first to stir. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his ring. In a gesture that needed no words, he slipped it onto his finger.

In an equally unspoken act, Mac took his head between both of her hands. With the utmost tenderness, she kissed his left cheek and then his right. Tasting both his tears and hers, she moved on to the side of his nose. Pulling him closer, she let her lips linger on his left temple before turning his head to access his right. Three spots on his forehead were next, then the top of his head, and then every spot she remembered their being a deplorable electrode.

And over time, nature did take its course and worked its healing.


	11. Chapter 11

Six Weeks Later

It wasn't the alarm clock or her personal internal buzzer that woke Mac from the most blissful sleep she had in months. It was the enticing smell of bacon, the heavenly scent of hash browns, and the aromatic, freshly squeezed orange juice. It was also the promise of another new day. Another day she hoped would be just like the day before, and many more to come.

"Happy Thanksgiving," Harm grinned widely, joyously interrupting her reverie as he entered her field of vision, pushing a serving cart.

"Our first together," Mac replied, smiling contently.

"I arranged for breakfast in bed. What will it be -- coffee or hot cocoa?"

"I'd rather have Harmon Rabb."

"Mac, we have to eat sometime."

"Oh alright," she frowned with fake annoyance.

Harm pointed to the smorgasbord. "Well?"

Mac closed her eyes and savored the smells. The sweet, rich smell of smooth, milk chocolate competed with the freshly brewed coffee; the latter's aroma exuding a honey fragrance with the slightest hint of almonds. She wouldn't have thought anything could surpass yesterday's Nutcracker variety, a blend of vanilla, hazelnut, and maple syrup. But today's options did just that. Making a choice proved too difficult, so she finally answered, "I'll have whatever you're having."

"Coffee," Harm replied, bringing the cart nearer to their canopied bed before pouring them each a cup.

Taking a generous sip, Mac groaned in delight before turning to her husband. "How early did you get up to pull this off?"

"Just long enough to get a fire started. I placed the food order with the hotel staff when we got back from sightseeing yesterday."

Mac didn't think it possible for a single nose to register so many scents at once. The woody, pine smell from the fire wafted behind the buttery smell of chestnuts already roasting in its coals. Both scents complemented the heady blend of spice and musk that tantalized her nostrils as Harm moved in closer.

The swirling smells were enough to drive her mad and ignite her desire. But if she was going to have enough stamina to get through the day, taking care of the more pragmatic need of eating was probably important. Still, it took everything she had to quell the impulse to take him here and now. A glance in Harm's direction told her he was struggling with the same dilemma.

Reading each others thoughts, they laughed together. It was enough to break the immediate spell and let them both enjoy the feast in relative leisure.

"Tell me Harm, in your wildest dreams, did you ever think we'd be spending Thanksgiving, or any holiday for that matter, in Paris as husband and wife."

Harm blushed. "My dreams are pretty wild, Mac. I take it you had fun yesterday?"

Mac giggled. "I think we personally set Parisian-American relations back another notch," she answered, letting her mind drift to the day before.

flashback

"One piece each, Mac. And not before I say 'go'," Harm warned.

"What's the matter, Flyboy? Afraid I'm going to win?"

"No, I'm afraid you're going to cheat."

"Oooh, that was mean."

"I call it like I see it," Harm grinned, wrestling the concealed, extra piece of bubblegum from Mac's hand. "One piece," he reiterated for affect.

The two American tourists stood on the uppermost platform of the Eiffel Tower. It was one hour before sunset; the best time to appreciate the superb, panoramic view the tall structure afforded. But somewhere between entering the Tower and stepping onto the highest level, the competitive challenge had been made. Now each of them set their sights on being the first to blow a bubble at least six inches in diameter.

"I'll still win," Mac stated confidently.

"We'll see. Okay … Ready … Set … Go!"

Their two mouths chomped frantically up and down, working the pink, rectangular pads of gum into the right consistency. Their eyes squinted in determination as their tongues poked forth simultaneously, stretching the wad into the thin layer needed for maximum size. Expelling breath from their lungs, each bubble grew bigger as their faces drew closer to gauge the size of the others result. Consequently the sticky orbs eventually touched and unexpectedly exploded on contact.

"I win!" each shouted, oblivious to the clingy shrapnel covering their faces.

"You did not!"

They chuckled embarrassedly after their on-going bantering drove the other tourists from the area. Taking advantage of the solitude, they enjoyed cleaning up the contest's aftermath with a series of kisses. Eventually they stood side by side, their arms encircling the others waist as they finally took in the view.

Harm's gaze had a far away look to it when he brought the small, waxy, Bazooka Joe cartoon to his nose. It still held the bubble gum's fragrant scent. Mac followed suit and inhaled the sugary sweetness.

"I always loved this smell," Harm said quietly.

"Even after everything that happened?" Mac asked cautiously, drawing upon the knowledge Connie McCoy had recently imparted.

Their friend had explained that, of all the senses, smell was best at bringing back memories. It was the same for everyone. Certain scents leave a footprint in our minds because of how they made us feel when we came across them. It was because of smells that Harm was able to eventually rebuild the missing links to his Staszow and Leeds ordeals. It just took him longer because of McPherson's meddling.

The woman's smoking habit and spearmint Tic Tacs, Gregor's gum, Spencer's chemical-laden fingers, the ammonia capsules, and blood -- all were keys to the mystery. But it was finally the smell of decaying flesh that unlocked them all for good.

Harm withdrew the paper from his nose. He pulled Mac closer. Gazing down upon her upturned face, he answered, "Yeah, even after everything."

Mac returned his hug. She had known it weeks ago, but today had reinforced the belief. Her flyboy was okay. Withdrawing her own cartoon, she read the fortune at the bottom of the comic.

"What does it say?" Harm asked, seeing her smile.

"You read yours first."

Harm focused in on the tiny print. "It says – It's time to make an important change." He paused for dramatic affect and then finished. "Start with your socks."

After they both laughed, Harm said, "It's your turn."

Mac cleared her throat and with a twinkling in her eyes read, "Today is tomorrow's yesterday. Make it count."

Harm smirked. "I like the sound of that."

"Well, the day isn't over, and we have a hotel room waiting. What do you say?" Mac needlessly asked.

"I say let's go."

And that's what they did. They returned to the hotel where Mac found Harm had already arranged for all the makings of a new round of memories to be saved and cherished. A dozen fragrant, red roses were waiting for her. The bathroom too was filled with the equally romantic smell of lavender blossoms. And there were scented candles everywhere she looked.

But the surprises didn't end there. Harm placed the delicately wrapped box in her hands. After she opened the present and withdrew the bottle of Chanel perfume, Mac did the impossible. She loved Harmon Rabb Junior more than ever before; and continued doing so into the wee hours of the morning.

end flashback

"Mac … Mac, you still with me?" Harm asked worriedly.

"Oh, sorry Harm. My mind was elsewhere."

"Someplace good?"

"Oh yeah," she answered, taking pleasure in watching him sink his teeth into the cinnamon roll he had selected. The rich, spicy aroma warmed her insides.

"You know, Harm," she continued, "It's reputed that cinnamon is an aphrodisiac."

"You mean more so than your fingers plying my chest?" Harm grinned, setting his breakfast aside to pull her on top of him.

Mac giggled. "Do you remember where we left off last night?"

"Umm, let's see … M.A.C. -- Mechanical Artificial Construct," he answered.

"Harm!"

"Oops sorry; wrong setting. I think I shared that one with Bud once," he chuckled. "How about M.A.C. – Marvelous Adorable Cutie?"

"It's okay. But you can do better."

"You think?" Harm asked, burying his face in the crook of her neck.

"Yep."

"Let's try S.A.R.A.H – Seductress Administering Rapturous Arousing Hugs."

"Now you're talking."

"What have you got for me?" Harm asked drinking in her scent.

"H.A.R.M. – Handsome Adonis Rendering Massage."

"That'll do for a start. But you can do better."

"Well there's H.A.R.M.O.N. – Handsome Amorous Romeo Made for Orgasms and Necking."

"Now we're getting somewhere."

There would be no sightseeing beyond the hotel room this Thanksgiving day.

--------------

The End

Author's Note:

I borrowed the Cyborg and Sexy Name decoders from 'http/cyborg. and 'http/sexy. I also borrowed the Bazooka fortunes and some dialog from JAG episodes.


End file.
